War Without End
by Dracoqueen22
Summary: Post-DotM film. In the end, Ratchet isn't sure why this particular horror amongst all the others is the one to make him break. But betrayal is a double-edged sword. And his Prime struck the first blow. See inside for full warnings and description
1. Ratchet Part One

**Title: War Without End **

**Universe: Post-DotM films, not novelization  
**

**Characters: Ratchet, Others (to come later)**

**Rating: T**

**Warnings: darkfic, canonical and non-canonical character death, violence, battle gore, some disturbing imagery  
**

**Description: In the end, Ratchet isn't sure why this particular horror amongst all the others is the one to make him break. But betrayal is a double-edged sword. And his Prime struck the first blow.**

**Other Notes: Written for the SciFiBigBang 2012 on livejournal. Special thanks to my brain-twin azardarkstar for the beta-work.  
**

* * *

**Part One - Ratchet**

In the end, Ratchet isn't sure why this particular order amongst numerous others is the one to make him snap. All he knows is that by the time the last glyph travels through the air and to his audials, he's drawn up taut, cycled down his optics, and point-blank defied his Prime.

"No."

"Ratchet," Prime says, his voice on the end of a good approximation of a human's sigh with fingers rubbing his face. He looks tired, radiating fatigue in his energy field. "That wasn't a request."

His plating is shaking, Minute clangs of metal on metal echoing through the somewhat private corner of the gigantic warehouse.

"You _can't_."

Bad enough that they allowed the humans to shove Jazz down there, something he didn't deserve in the slightest, but now Ironhide, too? And Que? The twins? Jolt?

"No, Prime," Ratchet says again, shaking his helm, grief and anger twisting a slow burn through his spark. "Just... no."

"We can't risk the humans-"

"That's slag, and you know it!" Ratchet snarls, hand cutting through the air, his vocalizer spitting static and expletives at his Prime. "Mearing snaps her fingers, and you scramble to obey."

Prime shifts his weight. He crosses his arms over his chestplate, optics narrowing with warning.

"Ratchet."

He slides out a foot, the scritch of metal over concrete a defining noise, prompting Sideswipe to look their direction. He prudently doesn't comment, however.

"It's disrespectful. Shameful. _Wrong_." His hands curl into a fists at his side, spark an ache inside him. "They died for this stupid planet, and that's all the honor the humans can give them?"

Rusting. Forgotten. Abandoned too many leagues deep under corrosive salt water, left to rot away at the bottom of this planet's deepest ocean.

No, Ratchet won't stand for it. Not this time. He should have protested harder when they first put Jazz there. He should have made Prime try that piece of the Allspark shard before Megatron's cronies got their hands on it. And now, it's not only grief that's fueling his denial but also guilt.

Prime closes the distance between them, hands rising and landing on Ratchet's shoulders, grounding him with soothing pulses from his energy field. A frazzled, exhausted, and strained energy field that their Prime should have never borne. It's uneven, unequal, imbalanced and the medic's coding within Ratchet trembles in fear. Their Prime is a shattered ruin, and he's the only one who can see it.

He directs his optics away, not that it stops his sensors from scanning. Or screaming their disturbed results at his processor.

"I understand your grief, old friend," Optimus rumbles, ignorant of the true nature of Ratchet's distress and the reasons the medic's plating rattles beneath his hands.

_Your_.

A part of Ratchet wants to keen loudly, here and now.

_Your_. Not _our_.

No indication that the grief and guilt are shared. As though Prime has distanced himself so far from their losses they don't even register anymore. Just more tick marks on an ever-growing casualty list, sacrifices made to ensure Megatron would meet his end.

"But this must be done."

He slumps, for a moment, trapped in a paradox born of despair and disappointment. And then Ratchet jerks out from under his Prime's hands, putting distance between them, and a cold glare in his optics.

"I'll have no part of this," he snarls and feels something shift inside of him, something already tenuous and strained. "Do whatever the humans want from you. I'm not helping."

He turns on a heel, strides away from his Prime, pedes a noisy staccato on the polished concrete floor. Some of the humans wobble in the after-vibrations; Ratchet can't be bothered to care. His programming twitches, telling him to go back, apologize. He's being rude to his _Prime_. He should know better.

Ratchet ruthlessly shuts off the cries, shunting them to a background noise he doesn't have to acknowledge. His plating has clamped down, fans working overtime to expel the heat of fury. He can feel Prime watching him. He half-expects his leader to call him back, to berate him for the insubordination.

Prime, however, says and does nothing which only serves to make Ratchet all the angrier.

He heads to the small corner of the warehouse that has been designated as his medbay. His med_corner_. It's no more private than the marked spaces labeled with their designations that serve as recharge grounds. It's a corner, nothing more. Boxed in with equipment and crates of supplies. There's no privacy. Apparently, they – as in the Cybertronians – don't deserve any.

Dino's arm is waiting for him on top of a table Ratchet had to weld for himself. The limb is in need of some reconstruction, several days' worth of work. Something to keep Ratchet occupied, to keep his processor from focusing on the swirl of emotions cascading through his spark. He takes it all, Prime and the recent events and his own despair and locks it away, segments it behind a strong partition until he can take the time to deal with it.

It takes several minutes of glaring at Dino's arm, trying to remember where he'd left off when Prime summoned him, for Ratchet to realize he's not alone.

"Colonel Lennox," the medic grunts in some semblance of a polite greeting. "Can I help you with something?"

At present, Lennox is leaning against a stack of crated supplies that brackets the narrow "entrance" to Ratchet's corner of the warehouse. His face is almost pleasant, but there's a shrewdness to how he tilts his head.

"What was that about?"

This is a topic Ratchet has no interest in discussing. Especially with a member of the species which has caused part of his irritation. Lennox wouldn't be able to understand, and if on the off chance he could conceive some measure of why Ratchet is so distressed, it'd then put him in an awkward situation. Trapped between his loyalty to his government, his own kind, and whatever friendships he has cultivated amongst the surviving Autobots.

_Surviving_.

Ratchet's spark does another squeeze of pain, and he forcefully bends his will. He returns his attention to Dino's arm, fingers of one hand shifting to smaller instruments as he starts to strip out ruined cabling for replacement. Parts gleaned from fallen warriors on the battlefield.

Decepticon or not, Ratchet will always think of the fallen as warriors. As kin. He can't ignore his coding so easily, no matter how long they've been at war.

Lennox exhales audibly, refusing to take Ratchet's silence as a reason to make himself scarce.

"Come on, Ratchet," he cajoles and dares to step further into the corner. "I thought we'd gotten past this."

Ratchet's shoulders hunch, and he focuses on pulling out a shredded energon line, tossing it into the discard box. There's no saving it for refurbishment at this point.

"William, you cannot even begin to comprehend all that's wrong right now. Save your energy for an issue that could better use your attention."

Directing the rescue and rebuilding efforts in Chicago, for instance. There are numerous government agencies crawling over the destroyed city, trying to restore it to some semblance of order. It's a herculean task.

"Try me." Lennox proves that he's as stubborn as his guardian. Had been, rather. Stubborn as his guardian _had been_.

Ratchet locks down his vocalizer before the expression of grief can seep free. There's no time to mourn. This is, or was perhaps, war. Losses are to be expected. He should be numb to them by now as many as he had been forced to acknowledge over the vorn. As many times as he's had to carry the broken body of a comrade, a friend, a member of his kin. As often as he's had to watch a spark gutter because there's nothing more he can do.

"I do not wish to talk about it."

"Really? Because I think you need to." Persistent, Lennox invites himself within, climbing large crates and stacks of materials as if he were a primate. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have tried to bite off Prime's head."

They had spoken in Cybertronian. Lennox wouldn't have understood their discussion. It seems though that despite the disparity in language, the tone of the conversation had been unmistakable.

Ratchet lets the silence build between them. Lennox stands firm. He won't leave without an answer, and Ratchet suspects he'll see through a lie in a matter of moments, no matter how carefully fabricated.

A tangible pall has been hanging over Lennox since the battle in Chicago, come to think of it. At first, Ratchet had contributed the lingering sadness to Ironhide's loss, but perhaps there is something deeper. Perhaps Lennox doesn't seek to comfort Ratchet but obtain some comfort for himself. A pity since Ratchet has no comfort to offer.

He exvents slowly, collapsing the fine tools so that he has his hand once again.

"Two weeks," Ratchet finally says, surprising himself with the static in his vocalizer and rebooting it to clear the interference. "They say the war is over. Earth is safe. People are celebrating."

Humans, anyway. Ratchet hasn't seen a single smile from any of his fellow Cybertronians. Then again, none of them have smiled in vorns.

"We, however, can only mourn."

Lennox nods, his eyes downcast. "Jazz," he guesses. "Jolt. The twins. Que." A lengthy pause, one thick with emotion. "Ironhide."

Ratchet braces his hands on the edge of the desk. "Yes. Their loss is keenly felt as with all of our kin that have fallen in this war. But they are not all we mourn."

"Cybertron." Never let it be said that Lennox is slow on the uptake. "Your planet." He too pauses, and his throat bobs with a thick swallow. "Your home."

"And whomever we left behind there."

Some Cybertronians had not been able to escape. Those who had survived the war before it went off-planet had opted to remain behind, no matter how desolate Cybertron had become.

"All of them. Gone."

All that remains of their species, their society, is whatever scattered remnants of both factions still wander the universe and perhaps a colony or two of neutrals that might have escaped Megatron's wrath. Though honestly, there are no such things as neutrals in war, especially not in Megatron's optics. There are Autobots, there are Decepticons, and there are those too weak-willed to admit they are either.

"To save us," Lennox murmurs.

Ratchet inclines his helm, shuttering his optics. "Because that was Prime's decision. Because he values this planet and its inhabitants more than he values his own people."

He hears more than sees Lennox start.

"You can't really believe that."

His fingers curl against the desk, carving grooves into the too-soft metal. Ratchet is tired, too tired for this. Too exhausted and sick of death to spare energy for ultimate compassion.

"I wish that were true, William."

Lennox slides back, dropping down into a makeshift seat on a broken gear. "But Prime-"

"-is only a shadow of the mech he used to be." Ratchet cycles his optics back on, tries to distract himself from the pain in his spark, that of the shameful truth. "We all are. We've become nothing more than what your government is afraid of."

Prime is no longer a peace-preaching, soft-sparked scientist. Ratchet will never be a politician again, nor a medic who saves lives rather than taking them. And Bumblebee never had the chance to be anything more than a youngling in the midst of battles.

"We are war machines," Ratchet continues, staring blankly at Dino's left arm, knowing that repairing the collapsible cannon must be done as well.

A cannon Dino once would not have carried. His caretakers wouldn't have approved.

But his caretakers are dead and probably his brother, too. Dead like the rest of Cybertron, most of their species, and everything they once held dear.

"We don't know how to be anything else."

Lennox frowns, tucking a leg up against his chest and looping his arms around it. "I don't believe that."

"Which doesn't make it any less true." Ratchet tilts his helm, slanting a gaze at Lennox. "Do you know how many of my comrades I've had to leave to rust on the battlefield? How many times I've had to choose one spark over the other? How many sparks I've taken?"

Ratchet won't even speak of the blows his programming has taken, how it's become so corrupted by the choices this war has forced on him he's not sure what the original lines were intended to be anymore. Somewhere, he might have an archived copy, but what good is it now?

"Is that what you were arguing about?"

"Tangentially." Ratchet still doesn't think Lennox would understand, but what's the harm in trying. "Prime has ordered me to assess our fallen comrade's remains before they are taken for disposal."

His tanks roil with disgust at just saying it aloud.

_Disposal. _That's what it has come down to, yes? Ratchet can't consider dumping them into the ocean as a burial or an internment. There's no ceremony involved, no rite of grief, nothing. Just dropping their remains into the deep, cold blue with judicious use of the human's carriers and a crane. It's undignified, dishonorable.

It's a shame that the 'Cons showed more care in reviving their fallen leader than the Autobots could show for their fallen comrades. A terrible shame.

Lennox tilts his head. "You mean, before we transport them to the Laurentian Abyss for burial?"

Ratchet snarls toward the human. "It is _not_ a burial, no matter what your superiors may think! That is _not_ how we care for our dead!"

And cannibalizing their fallen frames for parts had never been the status quo until this fragging war began!

Lennox holds out his hands, a gesture meant to calm, to lower tension. "Whoa, Ratchet. No one protested the first time. With Jazz. So I thought this was normal. Now you're telling me it isn't?"

"Of course, it isn't!" Ratchet lets out air loudly, plates flaring in aggravation before he draws back a step. "But it's what your government insisted, and Prime, in his infinite wisdom, agreed. For the sake of our political alliance."

For the sake of the humans, his snide processor reminds him. Always for the sake of the humans.

He gets it; Ratchet does. This isn't their planet, their home. It's not the fault of the humans that the Cybertronians brought their war here. A certain measure of distrust is only to be expected. But it's been five of their years, and nothing has changed! There's been no attempt to understand cultures. With the government treating the Autobots more as tools to be used rather than allies. And then, only reluctantly.

They couldn't leave. Prime wouldn't let them because the threat of the 'Cons.

"_We'll stay to defend the humans_," Prime had said. "_They cannot defend this threat on their own._"

Protect, yes. Ratchet can agree to that. But bowing down to every demand of the human government without second thought? No.

Ratchet was not sparked a warrior. The coding to obey his commanding officer was added when he chose to abandon his position as political liaison and become a battlefield medic. The coding was implemented as a survival necessity, never meant to completely override other protocols. And yet, after millennia at war, it has. To the point that Ratchet fears he is no longer capable of making a choice without seeking a superior officer's approval.

"What would you have done?" Lennox asks, breaking his silence. "If you were still on Cybertron? What are the real ceremonies?"

Ratchet's spark twists, and his back hunches. "It doesn't matter," he replies with genuine static in his voice, shoving away Dino's arm. At this rate, it'll never be fixed. "Cybertron's dead. We are whatever you make of us."

"Colonel Lennox!"

Lennox's head whips around at the sound of the shout, and he glances toward the opening that serves as a door to Ratchet's corner. One of the NEST soldiers stands there with arms full of paperwork, waiting for his superior's attention. With evident reluctance, Lennox rises to his feet.

"Yes?"

"Director Mearing has called for another meeting, sir."

"Of course, she has," the Colonel mutters and shifts his gaze back to Ratchet. "I guess I don't own my life any more than you do," he says with a bitter curl of his lips.

Ratchet watches him go, surprised at the sympathy cropping up within him. Lennox is right though. He can no more make his own decisions than Ratchet can. Lennox is bound by his loyalty to his country, to the vows he made to his people. And he doesn't even have the restrictive coding to hold him back like Ratchet does.

In many ways, Lennox has far more courage and honor than Ratchet himself. It's a sobering realization.

Anger reduced to a low simmer, Ratchet tries to turn his attention back to something productive. Prime's order sits on the back of his processor. If he doesn't do it, someone else will. Someone who won't treat the fallen with the respect they deserve.

Primus! Prime might even allow the humans to do it, under pretense of furthering trust between their two species.

Ratchet's hand brushes over his chestplate, spark churning in emotional agony beneath his touch. Which is worse, he wonders. Betraying his principles yet again, or allowing the humans to paw over the fallen Autobots frames?

Suddenly, Ratchet has no desire to be anywhere near NEST facilities or his fellow Autobots. He wants to be gone. This corner of the warehouse is too small, too noisy, and a mech can't spare a moment to have a thought for himself.

No one appears to be paying him much attention. Mearing has called a meeting, so all of the higher ranked members of NEST will be occupied. Dino's still in a medically-induced recharge. Prime is nowhere in sight, and there's no one else who could demand anything of Ratchet nearby.

It's a simple matter to shift into his alt-mode and slip out the back, under the pretense of leaving their hanger to once again sift through the detritus in Chicago. To that effect, he leaves a message on his comm net citing that he's unavailable. The only one who'd possibly come looking for him is Prime, but he's too busy trying to placate all the angry humans.

No one tries to stop him at the back gate. Maybe the soldier on duty is asleep on the job. Ratchet doesn't know and doesn't care. He heads off the base and hits the road, the ruined skyline of Chicago a broken reminder of the battle from a fortnight ago.

He tilts his sensors upward, at a blue sky interspersed with fluffy white clouds. He remembers that brief second when he had seen Cybertron reflected in the Space Bridge. When his planet had come within shuttle distance, so close he could feel it.

He also remembers the moment he turned his weapons fire on the control pillar, hoping to destroy it as his leader had commanded. He remembers his spark crying out in agony, coding in direct conflict. Obey your Prime. Protect Cybertron. Prime has ordered it. Some of his kin are still planet-side. The humans will suffer. There's nowhere left to go.

He's only a soldier. He used to be more.

Ratchet's shots had gone wide, a few of them clipping the pillar. In the end, Bee was the one who struck the final blow. Even so, Ratchet remembers. The guilt still claws at him in the middle of snatched moments of recharge.

Home. There is no more home. There is only Earth.

The disaster zone gets closer. Ratchet passes into the outer edges of Chicago where there's the least amount of damage. But instead of turning toward the current sector of the most in-depth recovery, Ratchet skirts around the working humans. He heads instead for a more industrial district, one that the humans have been saving for last.

There's a warehouse here, ironically enough, whose lower levels had survived the Decepticon attack. Support beams and walls from the tops and sides had collapsed, creating a strange open space in the middle where the inner structures were relatively sound, but from the outside, it looked completely demolished. It's a temporary hiding place but the best Ratchet can do until his patients are more ambulatory.

Yes, patients. As in two. Two Cybertronians who'd be unwelcome at NEST headquarters because of their faction. Two Decepticons Ratchet had saved in a moment of insanity and continues to fix because he doesn't know what else to do.

These memories, too, are as stark and clear to him as all others. The curse of being nigh-immortal and having computers for memory centers. Nothing can be forgotten unless intentionally wiped or accidentally degraded.

_There are a thousand and one tasks Ratchet should be completing right now. Injuries to monitor, final rites to prepare, plans to make. A moment to allow himself to grieve even._

_Instead, he finds himself in the ruins of a once great city named Chicago, scanners tuned to locate flesh and blood through the metal and stone rubble. He's searching for survivors, _human _survivors. Because his Prime has decreed it so, and after so many millennia at war, Ratchet only knows how to obey his commander._

_He does not begrudge the humans their grief. He too feels a pang in his spark for the innocent lives lost, crushed in Megatron and Sentinel's incomprehensible plot. He understands. Earth is their planet. It wasn't their war. The Decepticons dragged Earth and its inhabitants into their conquest._

_But in the end, Ratchet's loyalty belongs to his own kind first and foremost, to what remains of the Cybertronians._

_In the end, Earth only suffered the loss of one city._

_Ratchet mourns for the loss of his entire planet. Millions of his own people. Kilovorns of history and culture. The place he called home. What has always called to his spark._

_What little hope he had ever carried of returning home has now become ashes on the air flows, rust in an abandoned factory. There is no Cybertron; there is no home._

_There is only the bland warehouses, the human's kindly granted discards, and the growing sense that he'll offline without ever seeing a glimpse of peace. The war is over, Prime claims. To Ratchet, however, that holds no meaning._

_Sideswipe is still limping. His knee can be rebuilt again with substandard Earth materials or perhaps parts gleaned from the fallen, but it'll never be the same. Lucky there's no war, Ratchet supposes, as Sideswipe's mobility will never be optimal._

_Bumblebee's vocalizer is fried again. With Cybertron gone, so is the hope of him ever being able to speak aloud. Unless, of course, he's willing to accept a transplant from an empty Decepticon frame. _

_Dino has a shattered arm strut. It can be rebuilt, but that will take time. Time Ratchet's not being given. _

_No one knows what happened to Brains and Wheelie._

_The casualties are high yet again. Too high considering there were so few of them to begin with. And if Prime has even stopped to properly acknowledge the loss of their forces, Ratchet will weld his own self to a berth. But no, there's Prime now. Conferring with the human delegates. Reassuring them. Bowing to them._

_And here is Ratchet, the Autobots Chief Medical Officer (whatever that title means anymore), digging through Chicago's debris for signs of human life. It's been three solar cycles. He hasn't caught so much as a weak heartbeat. The Decepticons had been very thorough._

_His sensors reluctantly sweep another pile of rubble, certain there's nothing to find. But something pings back. Something of metal with a spark pulse. A Cybertronian?_

_Too large to be Wheelie or Brains. All of the other Autobots have been accounted for. Which means the spark ping is a 'Con, probably an energy echo from one of the many nameless drones Megatron had thrown at their forces. Like sparklings sent to the slaughter, but far less self-aware._

_Ratchet turns away, concrete crushing under his pede. What's the use? Drone or Decepticon, in the end, they were just enemies._

_The ping sends out a stronger signal, all but grabbing Ratchet's sensors and making him stop. Too strong to be a mere energy echo. That's a spark. _

_It pulses again, twice, out of sync. Two mechs then, two sparks, the second ping stronger than the first. Both of them are faint, barely clinging to life. But present nonetheless._

_Ratchet shutters his optics. His hands form fists at his side._

_How many of his kind are left? In all the teams that are roaming the universe, that haven't been deactivated or lost or destroyed, how many? Thousands? Hundreds?_

_Dozens?_

_The war is over. It's done. Gone. Finished._

_Is it really? What does that mean?_

_Til all are one?_

_A scoff spills out of Ratchet before he can stop himself. The Autobots stopped following their own propaganda a long time ago. Even Ratchet himself has become a killer, betraying his own codes. It may have started out "Til all are one". But since then, it has become "til all 'Cons are dead"._

_Peace is only a dream for those with the hope to still believe in it. Ratchet isn't one of them, and he hasn't been for a long time._

_Battle protocols hum in the back of his processor. His hand shifts into a blaster. Better to extinguish their sparks now, ease their suffering. They are Decepticons after all. They are Enemy._

_Once upon a time, they might've been kin. Friend. Partner to someone. Acquaintance. Coworker. Once upon an eon, they must have mattered._

_Ratchet hesitates, blaster mechanisms clicking minutely as they tremble between remaining a weapon and shifting back. His processor stutters, coding conflicted._

_By Primus, he doesn't want to be a kin-killer anymore._

_His blaster collapses. The point may be moot. The two 'Cons may be beyond his abilities to save. But he'll at least have tried, reclaimed a part of himself long corrupted._

It's wrong!

_Another part of him cringes and shrieks as he kneels and starts to dig, tossing aside bits of building to reveal a metallic pede. _

_He's rescuing the enemy! He's betraying the Autobots! His Prime!_

_Ratchet ruthlessly ignores every warning that flashes across his processor. He shunts them away, far away, and taps into something long thought missing. Survival protocols, perhaps. He has to do this. Because if he doesn't... _

_No, that thought doesn't bear considering._

_The war will never be over for Ratchet. Unless he does _this_, right here and right now._

_More debris shifts aside. The 'Cons weren't as buried as he initially expected. Legs come into view, four of them. Digitigrade limbs. _

_Seekers_.

_Ratchet almost abandons his task then and there. He knows they can't be Starscream; he's seen that piece of useless scrap in the line of the fallen. But the fact that they're Seekers is still an important distinction. Starscream is gone. How will they online in the wake of that knowledge? Would they even accept a truce?_

_Ratchet's plating clamps down, battle protocols rising higher on his cache. He'll never know unless he asks them. And if his initial scans are any indication, they won't be difficult to subdue should the need arise. He has to try. That's all there is to it._

_It takes less than ten minutes for him to uncover them both. A more in-depth scan brings up an ID ping, designations popping up in his HUD. Thundercracker and Skywarp. Starscream's trine. Of course. The two Seekers in the entirety of the Decepticon army who would take that glitch's death the hardest._

_Still, without those ID pings, Ratchet wouldn't have recognized them. Like Starscream, they had abandoned their defining colors sometime during the course of the war. They also lacked the identifying glyphs scrawled into their plating like Starscream bore. In fact, the two better resembled cannon fodder and not higher-ranked members of the Decepticon machine. _

_How curious._

_Right now, both of them are offline. Thundercracker's frame covers Skywarp, almost as though he were shielding his fellow from either an attack or the fall. Possibly even both. Skywarp seems to have the most damage from what Ratchet can tell from his initial scans. But they're both in sorry shape. Crushed and dented armor, energon leaking all over the fragged place, twisted struts, scorched plating. One of Thundercracker's wings is emitting sparks, which indicates a short in his wiring._

_It might be kinder to take a blaster to their sparks._

_Ratchet doesn't._

_He calmly checks his sensors and then his HUD. Prime is several miles away in a meeting with Mearing and Morshower, the president and his cabinet attending through video-conference. The other Autobots have their own grids of the search area, and the nearest human is several blocks away. There's no one around to witness Ratchet's blatant act of treachery. _

_Strangely, that realization doesn't offer any comfort._

_Sliding a palm briefly down his faceplate, Ratchet kneels to disengage Thundercracker from his protective curl. He'll need to move both of them somewhere out of sight from passing helicopters and NEST scanners. But first, he has to stabilize them both. And if he's lucky, one of them might become conscious enough to assist with the move. He'll definitely need the help. Both Seekers have ten feet on him, but he has the superior hauling power. The benefit of being a grounder. _

_The moment his hands touch Thundercracker's dorsal plating, however, the Seeker stirs. One optic onlines, flickering dully, the other cracked and useless. The distinct whine of a sonic cannon powering up is startlingly loud in the silence. Ratchet is surprised Thundercracker has the energy to spare for such a thing. _

_Static spills into the air, Thundercracker's vocalizer trying and failing to function._

"_If I were going to extinguish your spark, I'd have done it already," Ratchet says, frame tense as he waits for a reaction. "I don't intend on taking prisoners either."_

_The Seeker's limbs twitch, aborted attempts to move. _

"_...bzzkru-uce?"_

_It takes a second for Ratchet to translate. _

"_Yes. A truce." He sighs, and it's a distressingly human sound. "For now. I'll figure out the rest later."_

_Ratchet doesn't know what it is that convinces Thundercracker to believe him. Something in his energy field perhaps. Whatever the reason, the Seeker croons a wordless tone of agreement, and the distant sound of battle systems humming fades away._

_With Thundercracker's permission, more or less, Ratchet bends to his task. If he's going to save them, he has to be quick about it. The war is over, frag it. And it strikes Ratchet that in betraying his Prime's order, this is the closest to believing in peace he's come._

* * *

a/n: On to the next chapter. :)

Also, sharp-eyed readers will note that Arcee and her sisters are not appearing in this fic. The simple answer as to why is that I forgot about them and only remembered when I'd finished this and plotted out the rest. Also, I consider Dino and Que separate characters from Mirage and Wheeljack.


	2. Ratchet Part Two

**War Without End: Ratchet**

**Part Two  
**

* * *

"You are agitated."

Ratchet snorts, focusing intently on the wiring in Thundercracker's lower left knee.

"A vast understatement."

Fingers shifting into tweezers, he carefully plucks out bits of stone and other detritus caught in the delicate joint. It also serves as a useful distraction for not explaining further. Not that either Seeker seems to notice.

"Care to share why?" Skywarp pipes up from where he's lounging on a slab of concrete. An assortment of human bedding in various shades covers the heavy stone, a blinding clash of colors that the two 'Cons have scavenged over the course of their convalescence.

"No."

Ratchet shifts his weight, getting more comfortable as he cycles his optics and magnifies his view. Fragged Seekers and their tiny, tiny joints.

Thundercracker's quiet hum resonates throughout his chest cavity. "With that vile trill in your energy field, you probably should."

"I'm not about to tell my woes to a pair of Decepticon Seekers," Ratchet retorts, free hand pulling a spare hydraulic line from his subspace.

"And here I thought we were all friends, Ratchet." Skywarp levers himself off the berth.

"How cruel you are."

The medic shifts his attention briefly, and he aims a glare at the annoying pest.

"_Friends_ would be stretching it, Skywarp. You are my patients. Nothing more."

Hah. That argument could've sufficed a week ago. Not anymore though. The two Seekers are, for the most part, repaired enough that they could leave Earth if it were possible. They couldn't get very far, not with that glitch in Thundercracker's thruster, but if they could avoid the weapons watching the sky, break atmo, and hit the freedom of space, Ratchet supposes it wouldn't matter afterward. It's not like the humans or the Autobots could chase after them.

Then again, where would they go? Who would finish their repairs? Where would they get energon? Thundercracker certainly can't make it beyond this solar system. Ratchet would hazard a guess that the Seeker isn't actually capable of passing Earth's moon, but he doubts Thundercracker would admit to such weakness.

And so they stay.

Skywarp drapes himself across Thundercracker's back. Blatantly invading his companion's personal space and gifting a smirk down at Ratchet.

"You say it, so it must be true. Let me guess. Prime is kowtowing to the fleshbags again?"

He's unable to hide his flinch or the resulting shiver in his energy field. "This isn't our planet," Ratchet says, neither confirming nor denying Skywarp's accurate statement.

Thundercracker's wings twitch in annoyance. "No. Our planet was destroyed to _save_ this one."

"I don't need that reminder," Ratchet grunts and pulls back, his work complete. "Any other grievances I should know about before I go?"

Skywarp tilts his helm. His crimson optics take on a decidedly impish glow.

"Now that I think about it, I've got a kink in my energon line that-"

"Warp!" Thundercracker snaps, reaching up and flicking his wingmate in the forehelm. "Don't be crass."

"But it's so much fun," Skywarp purrs.

Ratchet rises to his pedes, reminding himself that this annoyance is suitable punishment for betraying his Prime and his fellow Autobots. He's also learned that it's in his best interest to completely ignore Skywarp's teasing and pretend he never heard it.

"I'll bring more energon next time. Anything else?"

There's a touch of impatience in his tone. Skywarp has the ability to annoy him far better than Sideswipe ever managed, though Ratchet attributes that to the whole fact they used to be mortal enemies.

Now? Now, Ratchet isn't sure what to define them. Hardly comrades. No longer foes. He doesn't seek their deaths; they seem to tolerate his existence. They haven't expressed any interest in retribution for Starscream's offlining. Although, touchy subject that it is, all three of them have wisely steered away from controversial topics.

Thundercracker leans forward then. "Tell me what it is that has you so rattled."

"I fail to see where it is any of your concern." Ratchet purposefully doesn't look at him.

"We're trapped here, medic," Skywarp retorts with a huffy expelling of air. "And we figure that the moment your Prime finds out we're not a pile of busted mech parts, he'll try to take us out. Tell me I'm wrong."

Ratchet inclines his head. "I cannot."

Once, long ago, he might have been able to accurately anticipate what his Prime might choose. Not anymore. What Prime has become is ruthless and unpredictable. Vicious, too.

Much like his brother as a matter of fact. It's been a growing concern that Megatron's offlining has affected Prime more than he'll admit. Both the first time and this second time, which is compounded by the death of Prime's mentor. No bot, no matter how strong-willed and touched by the Matrix, handles such betrayals easily. Yet, Prime has sought help from no one, least of all his medic.

Once upon a vorn, Prime might've gone to Ironhide. But that option as well is no longer available to him. Prime's entire support system has gone to dust. It's no small stretch to believe his Prime is... _unbalanced_.

"Ratchet," Thundercracker puts in firmly, a tone he no doubt acquired in becoming Starscream's second. "Tell us what the Prime has done."

"You assume it was him." Ratchet crosses his arms over his chestplate, an all-too-human move that he's adopted, but this one, he doesn't mind so much. "There are other grievances."

Skywarp drops down onto a piece of concrete masquerading as a chair. "Spill it, Autobot. We don't have anything better to do."

It's a waste of effort to glare at Skywarp. He seems to feed off of the irritation he causes.

"Earth isn't home," Ratchet bites out, and it's strange how much his joints loosen at the admittance. "It will never be home, and with every day that passes, I'm further reminded of this. The humans will never accept us. What Prime hopes for is a pipe dream. A sparkling's memory fragment."

"To be fair," Thundercracker replies, shifting forward, stretching first one and then the other wing out behind him. "I don't think it's possible to say what Prime wants. I don't think he knows. We don't really remember anything but war. We don't know how to function outside of it."

Ratchet exvents loudly. His fingers dig into his forehead, which twitches with phantom pains.

"And here I am, pouring my disappointment to a pair of 'Cons. Ironically, the only two who might understand my inner conflict."

"What was it this time?" Skywarp leans back, making himself comfortable. "Don't tell me he finally agreed to hand over our weapons tech."

"He has yet to make that mistake. But I don't think the humans will be satisfied by anything less." Ratchet seeks out his own piece of debris, feeling weary beyond words. "And with the war over, we've lost all bargaining power we might have once had."

Thundercracker croons a note of agreement. "Protecting against 'Con incursion is the only reason the humans tolerated an Autobot presence. And even then, just barely."

"Precisely."

"So what's the big deal?" Skywarp rolls his shoulder in semblance of a squishy shrug. "We don't have to stay here. Earth's not the only planet in the universe."

Ratchet shutters his optics. It'd be nice if they could make Earth home. He's so fragging exhausted. There's much about Earth that is acceptable and intriguing. But Earth will never be Cybertron, and the humans demand all but the energon in their frames as payment for a scrap of land. It's not worth it.

"Prime won't leave," Ratchet replies, and he can't even tell them why. He doesn't understand his leader anymore.

"Why would he?" Skywarp snorts, a flicker of disdain edging into his energy field. "He chose Cybertron over the humans. He will _always_ choose the humans over his own kind. And he dares call _Megatron_ the traitor."

Ratchet wisely doesn't comment. It's one of those disparate opinions that only serves to ignite tensions between them.

Ratchet is loyal to his Prime. Mostly.

The Seekers are loyal to Megatron. Somewhat.

Either way, it will take more than a little mercy and some repairs for either of them to admit that one side or the other is wrong. They tolerate each other for now. They have conversations lacking in threats and raised weapons. That, in Ratchet's opinion, is the best any of them can hope for at the moment.

As much as Ratchet regrets Prime's decision to destroy Cybertron in favor of Earth, he understands it. In all fairness, the humans don't deserve the destruction of their home world or enslavement. Ratchet cannot truly blame Prime for making that terrible, terrible choice.

He can – and does – blame Prime for all the other decisions he made which forced their hand in the first place. He also blames himself. For never speaking up. For not standing his ground when the opportunity arose. For not doing more to make sure their Prime wasn't falling into pieces, decaying on the edges.

Ratchet onlines his optics.

"When was the last time any of us actually performed burial rites for the fallen?" he asks, voice a solemn echo in the speculative silence. "When was the last time we didn't have to cannibalize the fallen for spare parts? When we didn't have to leave our comrades to rust on the battlefield?"

He supposes they'll never truly know the actual spark count of all the Cybertronians who had perished in their war. There's no way to be certain. It's not as though they can go back to all the frontlines on all the worlds and count grey frames. Or count the particles on vaporized battleships. Or remember whose parts belonged to which fallen comrade.

Once, Ratchet could have done it. He'd kept a steady log in the back of his memory banks. Back when it was possible to keep track of who had donated which part and who had received said part. Back when they could still count and notate every one of the fallen.

Sideswipe probably still has Camshaft's secondary fuel pump.

Ratchet's reasonably certain that Bumblebee owes his life to Cliffjumper's brave, if foolish, sacrifice.

Ratchet had once reinforced Prime's backstrut with Broadside's, a slapdash field repair that had held through three clashes with the Decepticons before Ratchet had been able to get Prime on a real medberth.

Ironhide-

No.

Ratchet briefly shutters his optics, dragging his processor away from the gruesome catalog he still carries. Most of it corrupted, other bits deleted as more and more mechs died and it hurt more to keep track of them all.

This realization is one of the greater tragedies of their war. At some point, the dead really are just tick-marks on a list that will remain forever incomplete.

Maybe Prime has it right. Maybe Ratchet is grieving for all the wrong reasons. Maybe he finally has lost his grips on his processor.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

He doesn't really know what to believe anymore.

It's been vorns since their war had any real purpose. Long, long ago it had started for a reason, take his pick. Megatron's lust for power. Prime's determination to ensure that all Cybertronians remained free from his brother. The desire for a certain equality amongst all the designs. Fighting for whatever a mech put his faith into. A petty disagreement between brothers that devolved love into hatred.

Long ago, they all fought and killed and died for their principles. In the wake of their war's end, Ratchet's realized that their fight had become nothing more than a continuation of old grievances. Peace was never an option, not anymore.

They fight because they don't know any different. Because no one can forgive. Because there are only the two sides who survived, loathing each other. The cruelest of the Decepticons. The most ruthless of the Autobots. Very few soft sparks made it until the end. Soft sparks don't survive war. Not in any real meaningful way. They either die. Or become something else. _Someone_ else.

"We're in a war," Thundercracker murmurs, filling the loaded quiet and dragging Ratchet from his thoughts. "There's much we've surrendered in the wake of it."

"Who can remember that far back?" Skywarp asks, words flippant but tone lacking that trivial edge. "Honorable burials and all that slag." He expels a loud gust of air, a disdainful sound. "We soldiers were leaving pieces of ourselves on battlefields long before this stupid war came along. Civvies are the ones with rites."

Thundercracker tilts his optics upward. "Warp's got a point. Those old rituals, they don't mean much now. And they never meant much to us war-builds anyway. No one cared what happened to us while we were functioning. Why would they care when we died?"

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. "I know good and well you weren't always a war-build."

"Yes, I was," Thundercracker corrects. "But I wasn't always a _soldier_. There's a key difference."

"Besides," Skywarp interjects cheerily, legs swinging back and forth like a sparkling eager to play. "Sometimes, war is the better option. Sometimes, there are worse things."

Ratchet's comm unit chirps before he can respond to that vague statement. He half-turns away from the 'Cons.

-Ratchet here.-

-Prime's looking for you,- Sideswipe tells him, sounding a touch irritated to be playing messenger bot. -Why aren't you on base?-

-Needed parts.-

He doesn't flinch at the lies anymore. After two solid weeks of sneaking out to repair the Decepticons and bring them necessary supplies, Ratchet barely stirs at the little white falsehoods.

The connection bristles with static, a pause of disbelief.

-Huh. Whatever. I'd get back before Boss Bot really flips his lid. Something's got him pacing. And I'd guess it was a squishy.-

Mearing. Or even higher perhaps. Ratchet can't hazard a guess, and a part of him doesn't care to. The humans in charge are interchangeable. In their politics, the only thing that remains the same is their greed and lack of respect. Can't trust any of them, save perhaps the soldiers who'd been with them from the beginning or Bee's sidekick.

The medic makes an indistinct sound of annoyance.

-Very well. Ratchet out.-

He shifts his attention back to the Seekers, who are making no secret of the fact they're openly interested. Thundercracker probably could've hacked into the comm if he'd really wanted, but he hadn't even tried. Out of courtesy or disdain, Ratchet doesn't know. He doesn't ask either.

"Duty calls, I take it?" Skywarp asks.

Ratchet hauls himself up. The squeak and hiss of unmaintained joints accompanies the motion.

"As always." He waves a dismissing hand. "You know the drill by now. Stay out of sight. No transmissions. Etcetera, etcetera. I'll be back as soon as it's feasible."

He turns to leave, no longer uneasy at giving his back to a pair of 'Cons. It used to make his plating twitch. Even as his armor clamped tightly to his frame, and battle systems hummed in anticipation. Not so much anymore though.

"And when we're repaired," Thundercracker begins, making Ratchet pause in the midst of ducking under a support beam, "what then?"

Ratchet's fingers rap over the metal of his thigh. "I don't know," he answers honestly. "I've not figured out that far yet."

He can feel both of them staring at him. He doesn't turn around.

"Why did you do it?" Thundercracker questions yet again.

"I don't know the answer to that either." Ratchet slides out from under the beam, preparing to drop into alt-mode as the ceiling becomes much lower from here to the street. "I'll return as soon as I can."

Ratchet leaves the collapsed building and his two Seeker patients behind. He takes a meandering path back toward the warehouse that serves as NEST's temporary base while they manage Chicago's cleanup. Too much alien tech has been left lying around in the wake of the battle and no one – human or mech – is comfortable with that amount of equipment ripe for the taking.

All of Chicago is under martial law. No one gets in or out, mech or human, without the military's permission. Not that it's managed to stop the scavengers. They've all seen the postings on Ebay, things recovered from the massive battle and sold to the highest bidder. They don't have nearly enough staff to track down all the missing pieces. At least, not from this end. And there's no telling what the government has already done with what they've managed to confiscate from the idiotic humans too stupid to not sell their goods openly.

Prime's hope that the humans never gain their weapons tech is a pretty distant reality by now. The humans are an ingenuous species; Ratchet will give them that. They won't need much to reverse-engineer anything, only limited by the materials that Earth can currently provide. Substandard compared to Cybertronian alloys. Yet, the threat is real.

Another reason that Earth will never be home, in Ratchet's opinion. When it comes down to it, and the humans find themselves capable of taking down the Cybertronians with their own technology, what then? They're already dying as a species. Who's to say the humans won't decide it's in their better interest to accelerate the process?

NEST's makeshift base is a whirlwind of activity when Ratchet arrives, more than when he'd left. Something has sent the soldiers into a flurry of excitement. A new arrival perhaps? Ratchet can only hope.

He pulls into the main warehouse, scanners seeking out Prime first and foremost. His leader, however, is on the far side, speaking with what appears to be Lennox. Perhaps issuing orders.

Ratchet slips out of alt-mode and snags Leadfoot as the Wrecker passes.

"What's going on?"

"Energon sensors're pinging in Brazil," Leadfoot answers, eagerness buzzing in his field. "More Decepticreeps coming out of hiding. Sideswipe, Topspin and me are gonna take care of it."

Ratchet can't share Leadfoot's enthusiasm. He frowns.

"What did they do?"

"Do?" Leadfoot's optics cycle down, squinting up at Ratchet. "What d'ya mean?"

"Did they attack the humans?"

"Uh, no."

Leadfoot looks honestly confused. He shifts his weight, craning his helm to look around Ratchet like the transport's going to leave without him.

"But the locals don't much like squatting 'Cons and neither does Prime."

Something drops into Ratchet's tanks and roils unpleasantly. "So we're going to hunt them down and extinguish their sparks."

It feels uncomfortably like extermination to be honest. The war's over, isn't it? Why the frag are they still fighting?

What the frag happened to _til all are one_?

"They're 'Cons," Leadfoot says, as if Ratchet has forgotten this key indicator. A statement that pretends like it's all the answer Ratchet should need.

They are Decepticons. Therefore, they must be destroyed. One does not equate the other. Not anymore.

Ratchet's shoulder slump. "And peace won't come until every last one of them is gone," he says, subvoc and rhetorically, but Leadfoot hears him anyway.

The Wrecker gives him a strange look, but he brightens quickly enough as he misinterprets the comment.

"That's the idea." He gives a little shimmy step to the side. "See ya later."

Leadfoot hustles past Ratchet, heading for the massive open doors of the warehouse and the waiting transport. Sideswipe and Topspin are already there, the former rolling back and forth on his wheeled pedes. A contingent of soldiers are performing last minute checks of their equipment, and from this distance Ratchet can identify Graham as their commanding officer.

Careful of the humans darting around, Ratchet moves to the open doors, peering into the bright sunlight. The three bots are the first to load into the transport, shifting into their alt-modes as it's more comfortable for the humans. Then, Graham and his team embark. Minutes later, they're in the air.

Ratchet wonders who they'll be murdering this time. For a slaughter it will be. The remaining 'Cons on Earth are scattered, hiding out in ones or twos, underpowered and without leadership.

Two Wreckers, Sides, and a team of fully trained NEST soldiers? They won't stand a chance.

They'll fight to the last drop of energon. Surrender never existed in the vocabulary of the 'Cons. Truth be told, Ratchet doesn't think his side understands the word either. Decepticons aren't known for mercy. And the so-called soft-sparked Autobots have abandoned theirs.

Shoot first. Shoot for the spark. Let Primus sort them out. If Primus even cares anymore. If Primus even _exists_.

Ratchet's proximity sensors ping with the approach of something larger than a human, returning with the familiar signature of a Cybertronian. An Autobot. _Prime._

"Ratchet-"

"No need to remind me, Prime," the medic retorts, cutting off whatever he'd meant to say and ignoring the screeching in his programming. One doesn't _interrupt_ the Prime. "I am aware of my duty." Coding conflicts keen within him, and he's sick to his very spark. "I'll be done by dawn."

He can feel Prime's optics on him, like heavy weights on his plating.

"Your diligence in this matter is appreciated."

Ratchet's tanks roil quite unpleasantly, but he can't decide if the disgust is aimed at himself for his submission or at Prime for forcing him into this corner.

"Don't thank me," he mutters, turning away from the doors and facing his leader. "I'm obeying orders. That's all."

_By the Allspark, don't thank him._

He doesn't know which is worse. The feeling that he's betraying his principles, that he's betraying his fellows, or that he's been ordered into doing it.

Prime says nothing, and Ratchet takes it as tacit dismissal. He steps past his Prime, drawing his field tightly so as not to reveal the dark turmoil of his emotions.

It hurts. He doesn't enjoy this inner conflict with Prime. Once, not so long ago, he had admired this mech. He had trusted Optimus, and his Prime had earned all of his loyalty. Ratchet isn't sure he can pinpoint exactly when that devotion started to stutter, when it began to dim and flicker.

Maybe when they'd landed on Earth. Maybe the moment when they had to leave Bee in the hands of the humans because Prime hadn't wanted to harm them. Or when they'd handed over the last piece of the Allspark to the US government as a goodwill gesture. When they'd let the humans dictate every aspect of their daily existence.

Maybe it was just one act. Or maybe it's a combination of all of the above.

Ratchet sighs, stepping carefully around the humans, their equipment, their insentient vehicles. In the end, he supposes, it doesn't matter what caused the first flicker of disappointment and inspired the first act of rebellion. The fact of the matter remains. Prime values the lives of the humans and their planet more than he values the continuation of his own kind. A gross oversimplification of the twists and turns this war has taken, but such is the way Ratchet's spark is interpreting the current events.

He doesn't return to his tiny corner of the warehouse, where Dino's arm waits to be repaired. There is Prime's order to take into account first.

The humans have kept the remains of the fallen in a large locked and guarded room attached to the warehouse. It is under constant surveillance and patrols, and it can only be accessed with the express permission of Director Mearing. Imagine that. Ratchet cannot tend to his deceased comrades without the approval of another species. They have become owned, haven't they?

"State your purpose," the armed human drawls in a bored tone, leaning against the panel that controls the electronic door and lock.

Ratchet bites back a stream of impolite vitriol. Or perhaps the urge to make this human extra squishy.

And wouldn't Prime just love that?

"Final rites to the fallen. Prime's orders and, I presume, Mearing's as well."

The soldier gives him a long look. "I'll just confirm that," he says, and Ratchet's sensors pick up the low-band transmission of the human radioing to his commanding officer.

After a moment of conversation, the soldier nods at his armed partner. The both of them step aside, one hitting the release switch on the lock.

"You got one hour," the man says, his tone lacking any hint of warmth or respect. "Better get to it."

Clearly, he's not an original member of NEST. Ratchet doesn't recognize him, and the human radiates distrust and disapproval. Lennox would have had his head for his insolence alone, and no one like this would've lasted this long under Ironhide.

"You're too kind," Ratchet retorts, his tone saccharine-false.

The human either doesn't notice or doesn't care as he waves Ratchet by. The medic just steps into the dark room, lit by a bare minimum of fluorescent bulbs overhead. The doors slide shut behind him and locking him in, granting a privacy he hadn't expected to be given. He stands at the end of the double rows, Autobots on one side, Decepticons on the other. There are more of the latter than the former, consequence of the fact the 'Cons employed dozens of drones and, as the losers, suffered more losses.

For now, Ratchet avoids the line of them.

Jolt is first amongst the Autobots. Of them all, he's the most intact. A single shot to the spark chamber, searing through his chestplate, eliminating all chance for Ratchet to save his life. He had been killed before his frame hit the ground. Spark snuffed out as though it were as delicate as a lit match.

Beside him are Skids and Mudflap, what remains of them anyway. Sentinel's blaster had been two powerful for their smaller frames. And his blade had finished the job. There's a thoroughness here that makes Ratchet's spark tighten with disgust.

That thoroughness, however, is nothing compared to the brutality of what the Decepticons did to Que. Shot first by a drone and then slaughtered by Barricade, only to be mocked in his death. Que is an assemblage of scattered parts, only half a helm and disembodied kibble. Some of which Ratchet can't identify.

The tiny crate, last in the line, is the worst of them all. Shot in the back by a weapon no mech can withstand. Cosmic rust leaves little left that's identifiable. A finial here. A cannon coil there. A chip from a spark chamber. All four tires, rubber immune to the attack, but scorched by the heat of the blow nonetheless.

_Ironhide_.

Survived countless millennia of war against the Decepticons, only falling to the betrayal of an ally. Sentinel's last words a mockery of the dedication and sacrifice Hide had given to the Autobots. And before that, to Sentinel himself.

Ratchet drops to his knees, feeling a keen building in his vocalizer. The room thrums with a deafening silence that makes his audials twitch. His fingers clench and unclench.

He can't count the number of friends and companions and family he's lost over the millennia. There's a list in his memory core somewhere, all the designations and memories associated with them. Part of him is numb to those losses by now. He doesn't know why these deaths have struck him so deeply this time.

Because they are – were – among the last?

Ratchet doesn't know.

He can't do this. He hadn't been able to strip Jazz's frame of useful parts, and he can't do it here. Even if there was anything remaining of the fallen to be of use.

Que's processor survived mostly intact. There are probably libraries worth of knowledge tucked away within it. Jolt's electro-whips are still functional and could easily be transferred into another mech along with the associated subroutines, provided they have the frame to support and ground the currents. The twins' optical imaging scanners are very useful and survived the blast, too.

Ratchet takes none of these things. He's supposed to, according to orders given by his Prime, but he doesn't. He can't, and he won't.

Instead, he cleans each frame to the best of his ability. He arranges each fallen Autobot into some semblance of dignity, though he knows it'll be ruined by the humans during transportation toward the burial at sea. In a moment of weakness, he slips the fragment of Ironhide's sparkchamber into his subspace. It is the only piece he allows himself to keep.

Then, he turns his attention to the Decepticons. Shockwave and Soundwave. Barricade. The Dreads. Nameless drones. _Megatron_. The humans also, without understanding the confusing tangle of associations and loyalties and broken sparks, have laid out Sentinel with the 'Cons. By taking that decision out of the hands of the Autobots, should Ratchet consider it a kindness?

Moreover, he wonders if that is what Prime considers his mentor. Is Sentinel a Decepticon? Does his betrayal mark him as something other than Autobot? Someone, he notices, has gone through the effort of scratching through the Autobot symbol that still remains on Sentinel's frame. The etching looks deliberate and not the result of battle damage. It also looks to be the effort of a Cybertronian, not a human.

It should be easier to strip the 'Cons of anything useful. But it's not. In death, all Ratchet can see are more Cybertronians, lost to the horror of war.

It should be a simple task. All he has to do is look at the line of fallen Autobots behind him for inspiration. Ratchet should be furious. He should be filled to the brim with thoughts of payback, tearing into the remains of the Decepticon frames with a vengeance.

He slumps, hydraulics depressurizing with a noisy hiss. He's tired of this, tired of everything. He doesn't have the energy to hate anymore.

Ratchet's helm lowers, optics shuttering in grief. No amount of time is going to make this easier.

* * *

a/n: Feedback is very welcome.


	3. Ratchet Part Three

**War Without End: Ratchet**

**Part Three  
**

* * *

"How's that?"

Dino flexes his left arm, testing the repair work.

"A little stiff."

"It'll pass," Ratchet replies, turning from the mech and putting away his tools. "Give it some time."

"Hunh." Dino rolls his shoulder, giving the joint a few more experimental twitches. "Time is what we have in spades now."

"So they say."

Dino tilts his helm. His optics focus on Ratchet with that eerie intensity he sometimes lets slip through the impatience.

"You don't believe it?"

Ratchet purposefully does not look at the red mech, busying himself with rearranging his tools in the small space of his medcorner. Not that there's much else to do with them.

"We thought the war over when Megatron was destroyed by the Allspark."

Dino considers that.

"Yes, but at the time, most of the Decepticon command was still functioning."

Command.

Ratchet barely refrains from snorting in disdain. He makes a noncommittal noise instead.

Dino rises to his pedes, alternatively shifting his arm from weapon and back again. "They're leaderless now. All that's left is to mop up the dregs. Right?"

"Apparently so."

Peace through destruction. Why does that sound like Megatron's special form of propaganda?

History is written by the victors. The turn of phrase seems uncomfortably apt right now. If in the end, Megatron had won, would the Autobots have been painted the villains?

Of course. They were the oppressors.

"That means the war's over."

"So they say," Ratchet repeats and glances over his shoulder. "You're fixed. Kindly go find Sideswipe and send him in. He's late for his maintenance. As usual."

Dino gives him a shrewd look. "You don't sound convinced."

"I'm a medic, Dino. It's not my function to decide these things. I just put you pieces of slag back together after you're done getting yourself scrapped." He turns, places both hands on Dino, and pushes the mech out of his corner. "Don't lift anything heavy. Let the welds set."

"I know the drill," Dino replies with a touch of annoyance, but he's at least stopped his line of calculating questions. His plating lifts and clamps closed. "I'll go find Sides."

Ratchet turns back into his workspace. There's nothing of import left waiting for him. Everyone on the list has been repaired to the best he can manage.

They still haven't found Wheelie and Brains. Ratchet suspects that they're only going to find grey frames, if they find anything at all. And he also suspects that the delays in the so-called funeral are due to the missing bots. The humans don't want to waste resources on _two_ burial rites. That would just be ridiculous.

Ratchet huffs and surveys his workspace. Routine maintenance is all he has left. He thinks of the stack of solar collectors waiting for him in their base in Washington, DC. Eventually, he'll get back to those if they weren't destroyed by Sentinel's rampage. And all the other, smaller projects that Prime had given him. Stuff that would help cement their "alliance" with the humans.

Never mind that the humans can't even bother to give Ratchet all the supplies he needs. Or that they can't afford the Cybertonians any element of privacy. None of them have private quarters. All of them recharge in their alt-modes and resort to car washes to get clean. Ratchet can't remember the last time he managed to scrub all of the grit and grime from his joints.

This is the world that they destroyed Cybertron and Jazz gave his spark to save.

Ratchet shakes his head. It's been five years, and it doesn't feel as if anything has changed. This bitterness is new though, and he can't seem to shake it either.

"Attention!"

Ratchet's awareness snaps outward, registering the flashing overhead lights and the warehouse-wide broadcast.

"Incoming energon markers detected."

Incoming. Ratchet hasn't heard of any Autobots making contact. His long-range scanners aren't picking up anything either, but that doesn't mean much. They can't pierce the upper ranges of the atmosphere in this state of disrepair.

Yet another thing to blame on their lack of supplies.

"All Autobots report to ops."

He hurries out of his medcorner, heading for the main console of their temporary warehouse, which receives real-time feed from NEST headquarters in DC. Prime and Sides are already there, optics locked on the huge viewscreen that's currently displaying the arrival vector of the incoming Cybertronians. They're using protoform shells instead of a spaceworthy transport craft.

"Identity?" Ratchet inquires as he steps up to Sideswipe and peers at the screen.

Arms crossed over his chest, the warrior shrugs. "Unclear. Either they're some ballsy 'Cons or Autobots who don't know any better."

"That leaves out Prowl then," Dino jokes as he arrives, taking up a position on Prime's other side. "I'm betting on Decepticreeps."

"Sucker's bet," Sides retorts with a smirk.

Ratchet's optics are locked on the screen. Three different markers. Three new arrivals. They can't possibly know that the war is over. Nor can they be aware of the special defenses that NEST deployed around the globe. They wouldn't have been able to decrypt Prime's message.

"Prime, have you attempted to make contact?" Mearing demands, and only then does Ratchet realize she's present. He had been under the mistaken impression she had left for DC yesterday.

Prime shifts his weight, glancing down the small female. "We cannot initiate communications while they're in protoform state, Director Mearing."

She frowns, her brow drawn tight. "Then you'd better figure out if they're a threat. Because if they get any closer, I'm blowing them out of the sky with or without your confirmation."

"That won't be necessary," Sides protests, rocking back and forth on his heels. "We can be at the LZ, take 'em down if we have to."

"No." Mearing's eyes narrow, one hand lifting to push her glasses up further on her nose. "They could land amongst civilians, and I'm not risking any human lives. Or collateral damage." She turns, gaze searching the screen. "They'll be over populations in less than fifteen minutes. Better make it quick, Prime."

A growl builds in Ratchet's vocalizer, and he has to force himself to lock it down.

"You can't just assassinate them."

"Can and will." Mearing's voice is firm, allowing no exception. "I'm not taking any chances. Not with human lives." She whirls toward Prime, head straight and uncompromising. "Are they or are they not allies?"

"Not," Leadfoot answers, slipping in between Sideswipe and Ratchet to point firmly at the screen. Or more particularly a line of code. "See those readings. Only 'Cons got those."

Mearing brightens, triumphant.

"There. Problem solved." She turns back toward the console, one hand gesturing to the soldier at the comm system. "Tell them to fire as soon as they have a clear shot."

Ratchet's spark surges.

"They haven't done anything," he protests, but it's weak. Too weak.

Sides spins on a wheel and gives Ratchet an odd look. "They're 'Cons, Ratch. What's it matter?"

"They might not know the war is over," Ratchet argues, his optics locked on the screen, and the tiny blips that indicate the incoming mechs' positions. "With Megatron deactivated, they might be willing to stand down."

And though Ratchet has never been a mech who ruled his life with a warrior's honor, he imagines that it's simply disgraceful to shoot a mech from the sky while he's defenseless.

"_Might_?" Mearing repeats and scoffs loudly. "Unless you have immediate, plausible proof that they aren't going to attack, I don't want to hear it."

Ratchet's attention shifts to his Prime. "Prime, they are still _Cybertronian_."

Prime doesn't look at Ratchet.

"This is war," he says, as though that is all the answer Ratchet should need.

But the war is supposed to be over.

"Defense system activated," one of the soldiers states. "Impact in ten seconds."

Ratchet swings back toward the screen, staring with a growing sense of despair. He's the only one who seems to remotely disdain the idea of shooting bots from the sky. He's the minority opinion.

And there's nothing he can do to stop the missiles from taking out the protoforms mid-flight, turning them to dust and scattered bits of debris that rain down on the Pacific. There won't be enough left to salvage, nothing to recover. The government won't have to worry about arranging for another deep-sea burial.

How efficient of them.

No human weaponry should have been capable of destroying a Cybertronian in protoform. At least, nothing short of a nuclear attack, but not even Mearing is that foolish.

But this isn't human technology. This is something built hand-in-hand with the Cybertronians with the intention of protecting both from Decepticon intrusion. Like the stronger sabot rounds given to the NEST soldiers.

The humans might have fired the shots, but Optimus had given them the bullets. And this is what it brought them.

Ratchet's tanks roil. His fingers curl into fists at his side, coding screaming at him, torn in too many directions. Obey the Prime. Save the wounded. Be impartial.

Decepticons are Enemy.

"Targets destroyed."

The announcement over the intercom seems to echo in Ratchet's audials. There's a tremble in his frame, and he's not sure when it started.

"All right. Show's over." Mearing claps her hands and looks at them. "Back to work, people. We still got the enemy to hunt down, a city to rebuild, and a mess to clean up. Time's wasting."

A dozen phrases crowd Ratchet's vocalizer. Horror and contempt churn in his processor. He doesn't spare the effort to glare at Mearing. She wouldn't notice. She wouldn't care.

Ratchet turns on a pede and stalks toward his medcorner, ignoring the strange glance Sideswipe gives him. He feels... He doesn't know quite what he feels. Disgusted? Betrayed? Torn, for sure.

He should be exultant that more 'Cons have been destroyed. That's their goal, is it not? To win the war? That's not what Ratchet remembers signing up for. A long, long time ago, winning had not meant the termination of all Decepticons.

It's wrong, and he can't quite put into words why it is so. Words are failing him. He can't pinpoint when it shifted for him either. He'd thought that part of himself had shriveled into nonexistence a long time ago.

Maybe he'd sealed his fate the very moment he'd saved Thundercracker and Skywarp's sparks. Perhaps that had been the beginning of his end.

He's supposed to be saving lives. He's a _medic_. He's not supposed to be advocating execution. There's no better term. Those Decepticons never had a fighting chance, whoever they were.

No wonder Primus has forsaken them.

"Ratchet."

Prime. Of course, it would be Prime.

He keeps his back to his leader, staring angrily at his makeshift desk and the scatter of tools across it. He doesn't have a project to distract himself. Unless he counts Sideswipe's pending maintenance.

"If Sideswipe knows what's good for him at all, he'll be here soon," Ratchet responds curtly, pulling out a drum of fresh coolant for the required flush and another crate of salvaged fluid lines. Knowing Sideswipe, the glitch will need several replaced. "And I have a shift in recovery detail in a few hours."

In other words, make this quick. Or better yet, don't speak at all.

"Sideswipe's been assigned to investigate an energon reading detected in Tibet," Prime comments, and only then does Ratchet realize that he can't sense anything from him. The mech's field is so tightly contained that it might as well not exist. "We must talk."

"I'm listening."

It's borderline contempt, and Ratchet ruthlessly aims his vocalizations more toward neutral.

There's a hiss of hydraulics as Prime shifts his weight. "You seem troubled, old friend."

Overstatement of the millennium, Prime.

"No more so than usual," Ratchet allows, a twitch cascading down his backstrut.

Silence sweeps between them. Ratchet can practically hear the younger mech tapping into his politics subroutines and searching for a diplomatic way to ask what the frag is going on.

"Then, I would ask what you would have me do," Prime finally asks, each word carefully measured with curiosity, a hint of rebuke, and also, a degree of confusion.

"I don't know what you mean."

"We cannot risk the lives of innocent humans, Ratchet."

His tone holds an edge of exasperation, as though it's an argument he's had too many times before. As though Ratchet should know this very obvious fact.

"The Decepticons are sure to bring destruction."

Ratchet performs a systems check, if only to keep himself for a scathing reply. He goes through several versions of possible retorts before settling on something that's the closest to polite.

"Of course, Prime. The safety of Earth's humans is paramount." His right hand twitches, and Ratchet clamps his plating. "I was merely offering an alternative course of action. We are so few now after all."

Prime steps forward, laying a hand on Ratchet's shoulder. An action that's meant to be comforting. It isn't. The edge of Prime's retracted energy field flickers against Ratchet's with a sickly wave of undefinable emotions that make Ratchet's tanks churn. He wants nothing more than to recoil from the dark twist of fury and hunger.

"Your concern is understandable. This is their planet, and they're perfectly within their rights to dispatch threats."

He shifts out from under Prime's hand, his plating crawling with echoes of that diseased energy field. "The war is over," Ratchet replies, his tone soft. "Isn't that what you said?"

Finally, he turns toward his Prime, able to see each expression etched into those mobile faceplates.

"Yes."

"And the surviving Decepticons?"

Prime cycles his optics. "It has been eons since any 'Con has sought to defect. It stands to reason that they don't intend to begin now."

"But if they agreed to lay down arms?"

"If that should happen, however unlikely, I'd be willing to listen to their requests." Prime pauses, exvents out in a passing semblance of a sigh. "The humans may have a different opinion on the matter. After all, the Decepticons aren't apt to leave them in peace."

In other words, a Decepticon presence isn't conducive to playing nice with the humans. They don't want possible defectors; therefore, the Autobots won't abide by them. If there is even another Autobot left who believes such a thing might be possible.

Ratchet stands alone apparently.

He squares his shoulders.

"You never gave them the chance to choose," he says, unable to keep the accusation from his voice.

Where is the freedom now, Prime? Is he too abandoning his principles like his traitorous mentor?

"I put the safety of this planet and our allies above all else, Ratchet," Prime returns without hesitation.

Disappointment cascades through his spark. But Ratchet can't pinpoint exactly why.

"I understand."

And he does. Prime has done nothing but make himself abundantly clear.

Earth above all else. The Cybertronians had their chance.

Ratchet dips his head in a semblance of polite deference.

"Now, if you could excuse me, since Sideswipe can't make his appointment, there are other matters I must attend."

Anything to get out of Prime's presence.

He feels a sudden need to be surrounded by 'Cons. At least they are honest in their intentions.

Prime doesn't try to stop or question him. Ratchet is free to leave his tiny corner and the warehouse altogether. Free to head into the radius of destruction that is Chicago and the lair where he's hidden his pair of Seekers.

"Who were they?" Ratchet asks, bursting out of alt-mode and ducking into the limited space that houses the two. "You know, don't you?"

Thundercracker and Skywarp exchange glances.

"Nice to see you, too, medic," Skywarp says with a fake chirp, hands busy as they pluck at something in the wiring of Thundercracker's wing.

Ratchet's hand slices through the air. "I don't care about pleasantries, Skywarp. Not right now. Who were they?"

Thundercracker lowers the datapad he's been scanning. It dangles from his claws, the screen dark.

"If you're referring to the three 'Cons your allies just ruthlessly shot out of the sky, then yes, we know who they were." Crimson optics flash with a tangible fury.

Skywarp's tone is light, but his words are accusing. "Why should you care anyway? They're just the enemy. Doesn't matter who they were."

"It does to me." Ratchet feels shame spread over his faceplate. "I have to know who we murdered."

"A strong word." Thundercracker arches an orbital ridge. "Murder? We are – or were – at war. And yet, you call it murder. Curious."

Skywarp snickers. "You sound like a scientist when you say it like that." He snaps a panel on the back of Thundercracker's shoulder shut and circles around his trinemate. "Can't you see how guilty he looks? Mech's practically seething with it."

"Don't mock me," Ratchet retorts, but it falls short of being scathing.

Skywarp's right, after all.

"That's what is so interesting about it." Thundercracker's claw taps thoughtfully over the datapad. "Guilt? For a 'Con's death? My how the tables have turned."

"We did get an identity ping," Skywarp adds, investigating the curve of his own hands, idly picking dirt and grime out from under them. "But as you know, protoforms are unable to receive communication transmissions. Pity that."

They're playing with him. A growl resonates in Ratchet's chassis. No wonder they are Starscream's trinemates. Both of them excel in word games.

"Are you going to tell me or not?"

"Terradive. Jetblade. Sunspot." Thundercracker recites with a bored tone and stares at Ratchet. "Does that ease your guilt, medic?"

Somehow, knowing their designations makes it worse. Ratchet's processor snatches up the names and applies them to the database he keeps in a separate partition, matching designation to file. All three of them fliers, lower-ranked Decepticons, no doubt seeking some member of high command for new orders. Perhaps their original mission was the lengthy search for the Allspark.

"Of course, it doesn't. You could probably knock out a mech with how vile Ratchet's field is." Skywarp clicks a derogatory sound at Ratchet. "But that's not all that's crawled under your plating, is it?"

Ratchet's shoulders slump. He leans back, bracing himself against a piece of crumpled steel.

"Tell me about Starscream."

Again, the Seekers exchange a look.

"You're full of demands today," Skywarp remarks and holds out a hand to Ratchet, crooking his claws. "What do we get in return?"

"I saved your life."

"Oh, yes. And what a life it is, this existence huddling in the remains of a fleshbag's warehouse." Thundercracker flicks his wrist, datapad vanishing into subspace. "And all the while, your merciful Prime is a mere jaunt away, all too willing to slice off our helms. Yes, we have _much_ to be grateful for."

Skywarp waves a hand. "What you want to know about Starscream anyway? He doesn't matter anymore. He's dead."

"He was your trinemate."

Ratchet frowns, confused. He feels like he's missed something here.

"Yeah, well, he's not the Screamer he used to be either." Skywarp's optics flash, field flaring with something before it draws back again, tightly contained. "He was dead long before your human blew his helm to shreds."

"That simpering, cowardly aerial you saw? Not Starscream." Thundercracker's lip components curl with disdain. "That's what he became in a vain effort to please Megatron. A shadow of the Air Commander we all followed."

It sounds... uncomfortably familiar. Some of the very same thoughts Ratchet has begun to harbor about his own leader. A mech he once admired but who has so thoroughly changed over the eons that Ratchet doesn't recognize him anymore.

"His death doesn't bother you?"

"Not like you think it does." Skywarp's wings flutter, betraying his discomfort with the topic. "We mourned Screamer eons ago."

Thundercracker leans forward, pinning Ratchet down with his gaze. "Why all the questions, medic? What does it matter what we think about our glorious leader?"

Ratchet pulls an item from his subspace and thoughtlessly turns it over in his fingers. "Prime had me tend to the recovered frames of the fallen. Did I waste my time retrieving this for you?"

The thin piece of metal, Cybertronian in nature, bears the surprisingly intact etching of a Decepticon symbol. It's all he could justify removing from Starscream's empty frame. He didn't know what 'Cons might consider of import, if they even bothered with such a weak thing as sentiment.

His fingers tingle as one of the two Seekers scan his hand and the item he carries. Skywarp shifts closer, crouching in front of Ratchet, claws lifting toward the metal scrap and pausing.

"This was Starscream's."

"You can tell from a scan?"

Thundercracker shakes his helm. "Not from the metal, no."

He stands and leans over his comrade, plucking the metal from Ratchet's grasp. One talon scrapes over the painted metal, shaves of it flaking to the ground before he removes something impossibly tiny.

"From the ident chip," he clarifies. "We all have them."

"Embedded in your primary markers?" Ratchet's orbital ridges lift; it's not unlike the human military and their dog tags. "Clever. Very clever."

"Among other locations, yes." Thundercracker peers intently at the chip, his features softening. "We couldn't always go back to battlefields, but when we could, it helped identify the fallen. If only for Megatron to realize how many troops he had left."

Ratchet winces, watching as Thundercracker passes the chip to Skywarp. He in turn cradles it with a reverence that belies their earlier statements of apathy regarding Starscream's fate.

"How many, do you think?" Skywarp asks, uncharacteristically solemn. A tiny croon builds in his vocalizer, a wordless sound of grief that ends nearly as soon as it begins.

"How many?"

"Of us are left," Thundercracker clarifies, straightening.

Now standing, he towers over both the kneeling Skywarp and the sitting Ratchet. Strange that he doesn't feel threatened.

"With Cybertron gone, what is it? Thousands? Hundreds?"

Thundercracker sounds unexpectedly saddened.

"Dozens?" Ratchet finishes, tone vibrating in symphony with Thundercracker, their energy fields overlapping in a surge of sorrow that surpasses factional lines. "I don't know. We were scattered across the universe while searching for the Allspark. Many have died on Earth. More have died over the course of the war."

He debates for all of a moment before continuing. What does it matter of the Seekers know how many of the Autobots are living?

"As of right now, there are eight Autobots on Earth. There are an untold number of 'Cons in hiding, but those numbers are dwindling by the day. The humans won't abide by any Decepticon presence, no matter how small."

"They're hunting us," Thundercracker observes.

"Yes. Ruthlessly."

Skywarp curls his fingers over Starscream's ident chip and tucks it close to his frame. "Then we, as a species, are facing extinction. We're the last, dying revolutions of a fading spark."

It is a sobering realization. Even optimistically, Ratchet can hope for a population grand total in the low thousands. Realistically, low hundreds. They have done a very good job of wiping each other out, and what have they to show for it? What were they fighting for?

No Allspark. No Cybertron. All they have are handfuls of refugees collecting themselves on this uninviting planet, while they mercilessly terminate any of the opposing faction. Further contributing to their species' extinction.

Skywarp's words are haunting. Ratchet doesn't have anything to refute his statement. Neither does Thundercracker.

He leaves not long after, not overcome by anger but rattling with despair. Ratchet doesn't have answers to offer. Just the unrelenting truth. They are dying; they cannot revive themselves. Their Prime seems to think it a worthy sacrifice in order to ensure Megatron's destruction and any ambition that the Decepticon leader had left in his subordinates as well.

"Ratchet!"

The medic shifts into his root form, sensors scanning and locking down on the form of one William Lennox.

"Colonel," he greets. "Did you need something?"

After all, it's not often that Lennox hollers his designation mere moments after Ratchet returns to their makeshift base.

"Got a minute?"

Ratchet hesitates. "I do have matters to-"

"It's important." Lennox's expression is firm, unyielding.

"If you insist." Ratchet scans their temporary headquarters, but no one seems to be paying any attention to the byplay. "To my medcorner? Or does this require a measure of privacy?"

Lennox crosses his arms. "You probably don't want anyone to overhear."

Privacy then. Not that there are many options available. Everywhere Ratchet looks are observant eyes, eavesdropping ears, curious soldiers and recording equipment. There's nowhere on base that is suitable.

Ratchet drops back into his alt-mode. He swings open the driver's side door.

"Get in."

"Where to?"

Curiosity does not prevent the colonel from accepting the invitation. He gingerly takes a seat, avoiding the pedals and steering wheel, and Ratchet belatedly recalls all the practice Lennox had with Ironhide.

"Somewhere with privacy."

Ratchet backs out of the warehouse and aims for the outer gate, which leads back into Chicago. If anything, there can't possibly be functioning recording equipment in the ruins of the great city. Though he'll be carefully avoiding the sector in which he's stashed his Seekers.

He pulls up to the gate, but the bar is down, preventing him from leaving, which is a curious and recent change in protocol. It wasn't lowered a mere week ago.

"State your reason for leaving." The soldier sounds bored. Like he doesn't really care about the alien at his gate beyond the fact that he's paid to do this.

Ratchet rocks back and forth on his wheels.

"The gate's never been lowered before."

"Things change." The man looks up from his computer, glancing out the window at Ratchet as his armed compatriot shifts restlessly. "State your reason for leaving."

"Roll down the window, Ratchet," Lennox requests.

He complies. The colonel leans out of it, smiling at the two men in the post. They snap to attention.

"We're heading out to do some recon. Got several sectors that're still hot."

"Sorry, sir," the armed soldier says. "We didn't realize..."

Lennox's smile widens, but they don't notice how it tightens around the edges. Ratchet sees it though.

"No harm. Just want you to let us through. Copy?"

"Yes, sir!"

The soldier at the computer drops back onto his stool and inputs into the console.

It's amazing how much having a human onboard changes their perspective. Most of the time, if Ratchet's using one of the other, more patrolled gates, the soldiers give him the third degree about his intentions. He usually has to lie about needing to strip the battlefield, obtain supplies, or some other nonsense.

The Autobots will never be trusted. It's a disappointing realization. For all the Earth is to be their home, the humans will never treat the Autobots as though they belong. Earth cannot replace Cybertron. And the humans will never be kin.

Inquisition averted, Ratchet takes Lennox deep into Chicago, where the destruction is the worst, survivors are nil, and reconstruction is slated for absolute last. If the humans choose to rebuild at all. It's quiet here, a warzone, a grave reminder of the battle from several weeks back.

Lennox exits as soon as the door swings open. Ratchet eases into his root mode.

"Okay, Ratchet," Lennox says after a careful glance around. "Spill."

"To what matter are you referring?" He looks down at the much, much smaller human.

"Should I give you a list?"

Lennox quirks an eyebrow at him.

Ratchet gropes around behind him for a suitable perch. He finds a handy stack of empty vehicles that creak and groan as he sits.

"Lennox, I have neither the time nor the patience for games. What is it?"

"I saw you."

"Yes. I frequent the base quite often."

Lennox rubs his forehead. "You protested shooting the Decepticons down."

"I'm a medic. My coding tends to err on the side of saving lives." Where exactly is Lennox going with this?

"I don't think that's all there is to it."

Ratchet ventilates noisily. "If you already know the answer, why bother asking?" Irritation coils within him.

"Come on, Ratchet. I'm not Mearing. You can trust me."

This and that are two different things. Ratchet looks down at Lennox. Brother in arms, Ironhide's favorite human, someone who has fought beside them from day one. Someone who would die for them.

"I wish that were true, Colonel."

And he means it. Lennox is one of the few humans that Ratchet feels is worth the air they breathe. Samuel, Epps, and Graham are also included on that small list. Lennox's men, his mate and offspring round it out.

He has yet to make up his mind about the Spencer femme. Dealing with Mikaela's abandonment is difficult enough, particularly with the way she treated Bee at the end. The fact that Sam ultimately chose Bumblebee over her is a point in his favor, however.

Lennox shifts his weight. "I've always been on the Autobots' side."

"In spirit," Ratchet concedes. "You aren't your own man though. And I do not trust the hands that hold your reins."

All signs of disagreement disappear from Lennox's expression. His eyes are too old for his face then.

"I don't blame you for that," he acknowledges. "Sometimes, I'm not sure I trust my government. They have a history of making bad decisions. Case in point." One hand gestures behind him, encompassing the destruction that is Chicago.

Interesting. But even more intriguing is Lennox's face. The emotion that flickers so tangibly into his eyes. Disappointment in his government, himself perhaps. Grief over what they lost.

Lennox's gaze flicks up to Ratchet. "So you think I'll be forced to reveal whatever you tell me. That as long as it's an order, I'll obey."

Granted, Lennox does have a history of ignoring orders he doesn't agree with. But still, there are other aspects to consider.

"You have a family. You have a responsibility to protect them. Earth is your home. You can risk neither."

Once, long ago, Ratchet had had family, too. A home. Now, he has neither. But he won't have Lennox's stolen from him. Not for this.

The human frowns thoughtfully. "But Earth is supposed to be your home now. That's what Prime said."

"I don't believe your government approves or will allow it. The war's over after all. The Decepticon threat is minimal at best." Ratchet leans back, lifting his optics to the sun peeking through the remains of a building. "We have outlived our usefulness."

"Is that why you protested?" he asks like he already knows the answer. "To give us a reason to let the Autobots stay?"

"No. I don't think you could understand my reasoning. It goes against everything we've done for the past five years as allies."

No human, no matter how trusting, can comprehend why Ratchet regrets. Why he aches from his spark outward.

"Try me."

"Lennox-"

"No," the colonel cuts Ratchet off. "I get why you think you can't trust me. I do. But I get to go home and tell Annabelle why she won't see Hide again. And I can't even tell her that he died for a good reason. Not without lying."

Silence swells between them. Lennox steps back, finds his own piece of apocalypse to make a seat.

Ironhide had trusted Lennox, more than could be expected for their working relationship. And Lennox had trusted him back. Had taken him countless times to see his mate and child. Had made him family of sorts. Offered Ironhide a home at their farm.

Maybe that's all the proof Ratchet needs to be truthful. Within reason of course. He doesn't think spilling the secret about his hidden Seekers is logical right now.

"Ratchet," Lennox insists. "I just want to understand."

The mech shutters his optics. "It's a concept I don't think you could understand, William."

"I think I'd get more than you think."

"Would you?" He cycles his optics on, meeting Lennox straightforwardly. "And if I told you that destroying the Decepticons is something I regret, would you understand that?"

Lennox flinches, his gaze shifting away.

"They were the enemy."

"Yes. They were."

"They killed Jazz. And Ironhide. And so many others"

It's Ratchet's turn to flinch.

"Yes, they did." His vocal tones are as quiet as the colonel's.

"They helped destroy your planet."

A quiet ventilation escapes Ratchet.

"A fact I do not dispute."

And all arguments he has had with himself over and over for the past few weeks.

"But you regret it."

Ratchet lowers his helm, leaning forward to put himself and the human on more even ground.

"Once William... many eons before Earth was ever habitable, once we were merely Cybertronians. Not Decepticons, not Autobots, but one interconnected web of _kin_."

He waits for Lennox to protest. To claim that the past is the past, and it can't possibly matter anymore.

Instead, Lennox doesn't speak. He waits. For Ratchet to explain himself?

Ratchet lets the silence build for a moment as he contemplates how much he should tell Lennox. Everything? Just enough? Maybe it's time for a little honesty.

"When the war first started... the majority of Cybertron rallied under Megatron's banner," Ratchet begins, slowly at first. "What he desired, what it _seemed_ he desired, was the sort of ideal that many of us craved deep in our sparks. And one I think you in particular would understand."

Lennox inclines his head.

"Freedom."

"Yes. Freedom. The right to choose. The opportunity to become something more than the path you were given." Ratchet drums his fingers over his thigh plating. "You see, Cybertron was split into two broad categories: soldiers and civilians. Those were then further subdivided. Soldiers – war-builds – fought our wars. Protected us. Died for us. And in return, the civilians ostracized them."

Lennox is studying him now. Clearly giving his utmost attention.

"What do you mean?"

Ratchet lets out air and feels the guilt of millennia. "We were afraid of the war-builds. They were bigger. Stronger. So we tried to keep them in chains except when we needed them. They didn't fit into our shining Golden Age."

He shutters his optics, processor calling up the memories, the archives. All the things he himself had thought and done without a spare flicker to the consequences.

"They weren't allowed true citizenship. Didn't have access to the same privileges as civilians. They couldn't apply for mentorship, become an apprentice, or attend the academy. Much less, change their occupation. They were locked in a caste, so to speak. It was what the Council had decided was best for Cybertron."

"So only the soldiers were unhappy?" Lennox frowns. "You can't tell me that soldiers outnumbered civilians."

"No, they didn't." Ratchet tilts his head and looks at nothing. "There were others who felt similarly discriminated. Miners. Constructicons. Laborists. They were treated little better. Even though, they had more supposed rights, they weren't allowed to exercise them."

"But not all 'Cons were war-builds, right? And not all war-builds were Decepticons. Hide was one."

Ratchet's orbital ridges lift. Ironhide had been more open with his charge than any of them even realized. Even now, most mechs wouldn't admit if they'd begun as soldiers. At least, most Autobots wouldn't.

"It is, after all, a choice. But yes. In the beginning, the Decepticons wanted freedom. And the Autobots wanted to stop them from mindlessly slaughtering and seeking power. Megatron could be charismatic. And perhaps back then, he meant what he claimed. After all, he was our Lord High Protector."

"Must've been a long time ago." Lennox draws up his knees, curling his arms over them.

Ratchet gives a nod.

"So... all the fights, what were you aiming for? How were you going to win the war?"

Ratchet now shifts his gaze to the horizon. The sunset is painting the dull sky in shades of reds and orange. Ironic that such beauty is caused by pollution.

"Prime always believed that defeating Megatron was key. That the path to peace and freedom could only be obtained through dethroning Megatron."

"And now?" A contemplative hum rises in Lennox's throat. "Is this the victory you fought for?"

Ratchet offers a derisive snort. "This wasn't a victory."

"But the war _is_ over."

"So they say." Ratchet looks directly at Lennox, grief and disappointment leaking into his field in such a manner that even a human could feel it. "Our rallying cry used to be _til all are one_. Now, it's become _till all 'Cons are dead_. Tell me how that's freedom."

"Old grudges are hard to forget." Lennox offers him a grim smile. "And you all have them now. Maybe a truce isn't possible."

Ratchet's hands form fists at his side, a tremble in his frame testament to the roil churning beneath the surface. His coding and his spark are in conflict once again.

"Maybe," he admits. "But we won't know unless we try."

"You know that Mearing would never allow defected 'Cons to live here. Not unless they were bolted to a table and maybe not then." Lennox rubs his face, scruffy with unshaven beard. "She barely tolerates the Autobots."

"I'm aware. And Prime, in the end, will side with the humans. Even if it means surrendering us to extinction." He pauses, the weight of their condition sitting heavy on his shoulders. "Though that may be a moot point without the Allspark."

"Do you really think a 'Con would surrender? Or even agree to a truce?" the human poses.

"I just want to give them a chance to choose."

Ratchet sinks down on his hydraulics. His frame is heavier than it should be, and his spark feels like lead in his chassis.

"Once," he says as Lennox exhales heavily, "we all fought for what we believed in. Once, this fight actually meant something. Once, there were actual sides." Ratchet lets out air, too. "I just don't know which was the right one anymore. If there ever was one."

* * *

a/n: Leave a review and let me know what you thought, please. :)


	4. Ratchet Part Four

**War Without End: Ratchet****  
**

**Part Four  
**

* * *

"_Energon readings detected in Sydney. Prime… Prime, report to ops. Repeat: Energon readings detected in Sydney..._"

Ratchet lifts his helm as the announcement comes through the PA system.

"That's the second time this week." He lowers his welder, giving Sideswipe a temporary reprieve from fixing shattered armor.

"And here I am, stuck under your tender mercies." The frontliner groans dramatically.

Ratchet darkens his optics and turns away, activating his comm. -Prime, it's been weeks. Their energy reserves must be low.-

-Then it will make them easier to subdue. Thank you, Ratchet.-

He exvents loudly, though Prime can't hear the irritated noise.

-That's not what I meant! I'm suggesting diplomacy.-

Surely, Prime remembers what that is?

But no luck. There's a notable pause in Prime's response, whether he's listening to the humans or praying for patience, Ratchet doesn't know.

-We've discussed this before. It's not an option.-

-Why not? Because the humans say so?-

-Ratchet…-

-Prime, the war is over. We need to move beyond this!-

The Prime's rising annoyance filters through. -We can't afford the risk of a second chance. The humans-

"Slag them! They think us war machines! Worse that I can't argue different!"

A finger taps over his arm plating. The ring of metal on metal cuts through the tension building in Ratchet's energy field.

"Uh, Ratch?" Sideswipe pokes him again.

Ratchet swings toward Sides, who taps his audial and visibly winces. Ratchet flinches, realizing that he'd transmitted the last over an open comm. Every Autobot within range had heard him snapping at their leader.

Fraggit.

Performing a much needed systems check, he struggles to get his temper under control, opting instead for the diplomatic coding still buried in the deepest parts of his processor.

-Prime, _please_-

_Be the Prime you used to be. The Prime we all need right now._

A sharp rebuke sends a whine of feedback through the private comm.

-This is not up for debate right now. We'll discuss this when I return.-

Prime ends the transmission before Ratchet can reply. The medic knows better than to contact him any further. The decision has been made.

Ratchet mutters an invective and turns his attention back to Sideswipe. The bladed menace is watching him with that eerie way he has, the kind that makes shivers crawl up Ratchet's backstrut. When Sides looks like that, Ratchet's always felt like Sunstreaker's looking back at him and not his brother.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing of concern to you," Ratchet dismisses brusquely. He waves at the berth. "Get back up there."

Sideswipe arches an orbital ridge. "When it's got your field that sickening, my curiosity compels me. Do share, Ratchet. My spark's got to know."

"I think your spark will keep on spinning regardless. _Sit._"

"No need to get snappy with me." Sideswipe hops back onto the berth, lying back as though taking a vacation, the very image of indolence. "I'm just an innocent bystander."

Ratchet's mouth quirks. "Bystander you may be, but innocent you have never been."

"Blaster to the spark!" Sideswipe makes a grand, faked gesture of injury. "You always know how to wound a mech." He reaches out, knuckles brushing over Ratchet's plating. "C'mon, you know I can keep a secret."

"Ratchet!"

The sharp tones in a distinctly human voice make Ratchet go very still. His very cables and joints tighten as he turns, ever so slowly, to greet the unwanted visitor. The lack of privacy in his medcorner is never so apparent as when any human can just wander in, Lennox and their friendly allies notwithstanding.

"If you don't mind, Director Mearing, I'm with a patient," Ratchet says, concise and careful, as he directs a gimlet optic down at the woman.

She stands ever fearless. Her face is pinched with the very expression a caretaker might give a youngling.

"Sideswipe can wait." Mearing gestures sharply to her assistant who scurries to hand her a bag and what appears to be a sheaf of documentation. "I need to know what in the seven blazes do you think you need with eight tons of acetylene."

"Medical purposes," Ratchet replies.

If she wants details, let her grill her tech people. Ratchet's not going to make it any easier for the humans to understand their biology or technology. Not when it's been proven that they will turn on the Autobots all too quickly.

"Medical purposes," Mearing repeats. Her tone is flat, skeptical. "Not, for instance, weapons?"

Ratchet arches an orbital ridge. "We have our own. Why would we need your substandard weaponry?"

"Why do you need eight tons of our supply if you have your own?"

"This and that are two different arguments, Director. I need acetylene to ensure that the Autobots are in healthy, working condition."

Ratchet knows, without even checking, that Prime is gone, off to kill some Decepticons. He's on his own against the humans. As always.

She doesn't look convinced. "We'll consider it." Mearing consults her notes. "And for your information, we will not be supplying you with mercury, platinum, or palladium."

Sideswipe makes a noise, a tonal sound that would mean little to the humans but speaks paragraphs to Ratchet. He tosses Sides a warning look and directs his attention back to Mearing, reaching for every polite bit of coding he owns.

"May I inquire as to why?"

"Too dangerous. Too expensive. Not worth the investment." Mearing checks something off with her pen, looking up at Ratchet from above her spectacles. "Or are they medical supplies, too?"

"Yes."

"Hmm." Her frown deepens. "As for plutonium... not as long as I draw breath. The answer is a firm, no argument, _no_."

The request for plutonium had been a long shot anyway, but Ratchet had hoped that by asking for something outrageous, the more reasonable requirements might be given with minimal argument.

"Very well," Ratchet concedes. "Nevertheless, I am in need of those supplies. The Autobots still require numerous repairs after the battle for Chicago."

Mearing looks up from her notebook, closing it with an audible thump. "I'll put your requests under consideration. There are procedures to be followed after all, and I'm not the only one with hands on the budget."

"I don't recall so much bureaucracy surrounding my last supply requisition."

Her lips twitch. "Things change." She tucks the notebook under her arm. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

Mearing turns on a perfunctory heel and strides out of his medcorner, her assistant scurrying to keep up and nearly dropping her bundle of assorted bags. Ratchet watches her leave, tracks her progress across the warehouse, and doesn't turn back toward Sideswipe until he's sure the director won't be reappearing.

"Primus, if ever there was a squishy that deserved to be squished," Sideswipe mutters, subvocally and in Cybertronian for good measure.

Ratchet looks at him. "However true that may be, don't let Prime hear you saying such a thing. He might think you mean it. And then, where would you be?"

Dead with the Decepticons probably.

"He just doesn't get my sense of humor." Sideswipe puts in with a verbal grin, thankfully missing Ratchet's unspoken addendum. "Not like you."

"I'm honored." Ratchet reaches for a scanner in preparation for dealing with Sideswipe so he can finally get the noisy nuisance out of his medcorner.

"You should be."

For a moment, there's comfortable silence. Ratchet dares think that Sideswipe's been suitably distracted from his earlier line of questioning.

Until he feels those sharp optics on him again with that same eerie gaze that Sideswipe bears sometimes. It's enough to make a mech uneasy, want to back up a step. Except that Ratchet never backs down from anything.

"What?" the medic demands as his clunky scanner starts up with a whine of terribly outdated hardware. He might as well have a polaroid and pickaxe for all the good it does him.

"You never answered my question," Sides replies almost sing-song and painfully familiar.

Jazz, dead though he now is, still has a lingering and unfortunate influence.

"I never said I was going to either. Be still," Ratchet orders.

Sideswipe retracts his tires, pedes emerging to prod at the berth. He's at least learned his lesson about track marks.

"Can't. Mystery's afoot. Does it got anything to do with what happened last week?"

As in, last week when Ratchet protested the shameful act of shooting the arriving 'Cons out of the sky. The decision hadn't seemed to bother anyone else. Yes, of course his recent ill behavior is a result of that, but Ratchet isn't about to tell anyone that.

"I need to concentrate," he mutters instead and aims the scanner at Sideswipe, checking all the basics first, fuel levels and the like. The frontliner has been known on occasion to forget to top off his fluids.

"Uh huh. An avoiding answer if I ever heard one," the silver mech decides. "Do I need to get Prime involved?"

Ratchet nearly flinches. "I outrank you, Sideswipe."

As a matter of fact, with both Jazz and Hide gone and until – if – Prowl arrives, Ratchet is second-in-command. How easily they all forget that. How easily he forgets that.

"Hmm. So it has to do with Prime." Sideswipe tucks his arms behind his head, an all too human gesture of repose. "Prime, who's off hunting down Decepticons. I think I'm starting to see a pattern here."

Slag it all to the pits. Sideswipe is not as dumb as he pretends to be. He can and does know how to read between the lines, and his oddly tangential way of processing information ensures that he arrives at answers and bypasses all barriers. Often mere seconds before Prowl, whose linear, logical center makes him the perfect tactician.

Ratchet should've thrown Sideswipe out the very moment the silver bot expressed his curiosity, his maintenance be fragged.

"You're running low on coolant," Ratchet comments instead as the scanner finishes its achingly slow examination and transmits the results to his HUD.

"Yeah. And my knee joint's scrap. I've got grime in my articulators – Sunny's gonna kill me when he finds out – and I need a coil of platinum _yesterday_. Tell me something I don't know." His hand slips out, fingers coiling around Ratchet's arm, forcing the medic to look at him. "Gotta let it out somehow, Ratchet."

The medic jerks his arm free, turning away to rifle through his crates of supplies. He's got to have a twist of assorted metals here _somewhere _and maybe a bit more lubricant for that knee.

"You're relentless."

"Course I am. 'Cons don't go down easy. Not even the drones." Sideswipe's vocal tones turn musing, stating a simple fact.

Ratchet gives up his fruitless search. "I don't have any platinum," he says with irritation. "Mearing's probably not going to give me any either."

"Weird, isn't it?" Sides shifts as though to sit up, and when Ratchet doesn't protest, he drags himself completely upright. "Eons of war and we're right back where we started, at the bottom of the heap trying to climb our way up."

Ratchet braces his hands on the edge of the crate, which creaks under his additional weight. Sideswipe is one who could have probably joined the Decepticons, so many eons ago. He would've wanted the same freedoms they proclaimed. He _had_ been at the bottom of the social hierarchy. And Ratchet's not blind or stupid. He knows that there are many Autobots who think that Sideswipe and his brother are on the wrong side. That they're more Decepticon than Autobot.

Eons of war and now they're no longer Cybertronian. They are Decepticon or Autobot. As if the two are completely dissimilar, perhaps even separate species.

"It makes you wonder, doesn't it?" Ratchet questions, intending rhetoric but also fully curious as to Sideswipe's opinion on the matter. "If the Decepticons were right after all."

The silence that falls is heavy. Sides' energy field betrays his surprise.

"Is _that_ what's grinding your gears?"

Ratchet waves it off. "Never mind."

He lifts his hands, trying to dismiss the line of conversation. It's frag near treason, isn't it? And he's already crossed the lines by saving the two 'Cons. He doesn't dare drag Sideswipe into it, too.

Sideswipe, however, is like a sparkling with an energon goodie. He's not letting it go so easily.

"I _have_ wondered," he murmurs very softly. Too softly.

Ratchet looks at Sideswipe, whose gaze has turned distant, optics focused on something only he can see. There's a distinct glaze in them that indicates the accessing of old memory files.

"Me and Sunny chose to be Autobots, but with our origins, we should've been the first in line on 'Con sign-up day." Sideswipe frowns, his optics dimming. "Sunny didn't trust the Council, but he trusted Megatron's intentions even less."

And wherever Sunstreaker goes, Sideswipe follows. It goes without even needing to be said.

"You could've been neutral." Ratchet braces himself against the crates.

Sideswipe grinds a few gears together, a sound of disdain. "Not an option. Not after the war trampled our livelihood. Prime and Megatron were fighting over every scrap of real estate on Cybertron. Nowhere was neutral."

He has a point. All neutrals were potential Autobots to Megatron. Prime, for the most part, granted them their impartiality, but Megatron was ruthless.

"You chose the Autobots as the lesser of two evils?"

Ratchet doesn't even have to feign interest. He honestly wants to know.

"You could say that. We've done a lot in the Autobot name. Dismantled more mechs than I can count." Sides pauses, lifting a hand and unsheathing a blade, watching it slide free with the molten blue of heated metal. "We're not the mechs we used to be. Can't be again." He drops his hands and shifts toward Ratchet. "I have to believe we picked the right side. Cause if we were wrong, I'd have to turn my blades on my own spark."

It's a heavy confession. Ratchet never knew that Sideswipe had his doubts. The silver mech has always seemed so certain of himself. He never hesitates; he's the first to dive into battle and doesn't flinch at the dirty work.

"Sunstreaker?"

"He's still alive. I'd know if he wasn't." Sideswipe thumps his chest pointedly. "Trust me. And he'd tell you the same thing."

"No matter what?" Ratchet folds his arms over his chassis.

Sideswipe inclines his helm. "We gave our vow to Prime. That's what matters."

"Even if he's strayed from the path?"

"Who hasn't?" Sideswipe lifts his shoulders in mimicry of a human shrug. "Diplomacy. Truces. That slag isn't my job. Prime aims. I shoot. I have to believe in that."

"It's that simple?"

"Because I need it to be." Sideswipe's mouthplates curve in a crooked grin, spreading his arms out helplessly. "So you gonna fix me or what?"

Conversation concluded. Change the subject, medic. Though this has definitely been revelations for pondering.

Ratchet lifts his optics to the heavens and shoos the silver mech back up onto the berth. "Didn't you hear, Mearing? I shouldn't waste my resources."

Sideswipe throws his helm back and laughs, his amusement carrying through Ratchet's medcorner and no doubt attracting attention. Neither he nor Sideswipe particularly care.

o0o0o

The next morning dawns crisp and bright. The sky is awash in shades of color they'd never have seen on Cybertron. For all that Ratchet misses his home planet, there are certain things about Earth that are pleasing. The sunrises for instant.

The beauty of the scenery, however, does little to distract from the somber pall hanging over their temporary headquarters. Whether out of respect for the Autobots or the fear of being squished, the humans are being suitably cheerless. Mearing has chosen today, of all days, to serve as a funeral for the Autobots lost in the line of duty.

It's been three months since the battle in Chicago. Ratchet isn't sure he should be insulted that it's taken so long for the ceremony to be performed. Was it intentional? Were there other important things?

No way to know without asking.

Human recovery has been done with for weeks. A month really. All survivors are either passed or in stable condition, sure to recover. Homeless residents of Chicago have been moved to temporary living facilities or provided transportation to family members who can house them.

True, they are still actively hunting down the hiding 'Cons, but a brief delay in that line of orders couldn't hurt. It's not as though said Decepticons are harming human population. No, they are desperately concealing themselves, trying to forestall the inevitable. Oh, sure there have been thefts here and there, mostly fuel or supplies for repairs. But interestingly, there've been no fatalities.

Despite this, it's taken three months to arrange a ceremony for the Autobots. What that says about their alliance, Ratchet is reluctant to contemplate.

There's nothing Cybertronian about the funeral, save for those being "honored" and those participating. The hanger housing the empty frames has been thrust wide open. There's a paved road between it and the aircraft waiting to transport the shipping container and its contents to burial at sea.

Humans and Autobots alike line up to either side of the road. Ratchet stands somewhere in the middle, between Sideswipe and Dino, Lennox perched near his collar. Bumblebee is here as well, though missing Sam and Carly. Prime's closest to the aircraft, silent. The Wreckers are on the other side. NEST soldiers fill in the gaps with Mearing and her entourage standing opposite Prime.

Someone starts playing a song, instrumental only, a human melody. Ratchet could probably access the internet, find out the name, but he doesn't care. It's not Cybertronian. This is a concession to human sensibilities, nothing more. There's no honor in being dumped at sea, shoved together into a cargo container, parts all jumbled and mismatched. It's a desecration.

The humans bring out Jolt first. As the most intact of the fallen Autobots, his frame is the most recognizable. He's been laid out on a flatbed, a mimicry of recharge repose. As he passes, the NEST soldiers snap into a salute, one that they maintain.

The procession moves on until the end, where Prime lifts Jolt's frame and places him inside the cargo container. His hand brushes Jolt's chestplate, over his nonexistent spark, and he bows his helm. He says nothing, but the air is humming with energy fields emanating grief. In this, for once, the Autobots are all in agreement.

It's a tangible thing. Surely, the humans can feel it. All of the surviving Autobots and their fields synching, creating a low, audible hum of sorrow.

The rest emerge in the same fashion. Skids and Mudflap, together in death as they had been in life. The pieces of Que, neatly arranged and carefully welded in semblance of a full frame. The surviving remnants of Ironhide, placed in a small container with his spare weaponry arranged around it, carefully emptied of any technology the humans might try to steal when they think the Autobots aren't looking.

They had elected not to bury Sentinel with his former brethren.

Prime is the one who seals the shipping container, the back of it painted with an enormous Autobot symbol in bright red. And for a long moment, no one says anything. The humans wrap up their song, and silence reigns supreme. Ratchet's already mourned, but it's hard not to get caught up in the moment.

He said his goodbyes a long time ago, but the ceremony has succeeded in making the pain rise afresh. What did they die for? To protect a planet that will never be home for them. For ideals the Autobots have forgotten.

The cargo container is loaded into the aircraft and the bay closed. As the plane taxies toward the runway, contents safely stored, Ratchet feels his spark give a lurch. It's not _right_, his processor tells him. His spark agrees.

"All right, gentlemen." Mearing's voice cuts through the solemn atmosphere, pitched loud enough to be heard by all as she claps her hands together sharply. "We've work to do. Decepticons to track down, and we're moving into Sector 16 by the end of the week."

Like a broken string, the joined resonance of sorrow snaps. Ratchet's own energy field shifts to irritation, sparks with anger. Barely five minutes of respect is all the woman can offer?

A low growl builds in his vocalizer.

Lennox's hand, warm and comforting, pats Ratchet's face. "Not now," he murmurs, voice barely loud enough to be heard. "You can't make a scene."

Oh, but he wants to. This is ridiculous. Uncivil. It stomps up and down their supposed alliance. And Prime stands there, not so much as a blip of protest in his field. He says something to Leadfoot, not that Ratchet can hear what it is, but he's fragged certain it doesn't have anything to do with the funeral. And-

Wait a klik.

He turns away from the crowd.

"Did she say Sector 16?" Ratchet asks of his companion, who has yet to disembark.

"Yeah. It's next on the list. We're to tag buildings for either reconstruction, demolishing, or preservation." Lennox sounds confused. "Why?"

To anyone else, it would mean nothing. To Ratchet, it's everything. Sector 16 is where he's stashed Thundercracker and Skywarp. They are well concealed from passing cameras and satellite imagery, but from energon detectors and scanning soldiers? Not so much. No way that NEST will miss two conscious and capable Seekers.

He has to move them. They are both capable of flight, but where would they go? Off planet? The long range defense system would shoot them down before they could clear the atmosphere. Even if they could make it, where would they go from there, as low on energon and still in need of some repair. Skywarp's processor still glitches, Thundercracker's thrusters are wonky, and both of them desperately need maintenance and a good, long defrag.

Ratchet realizes that he's going to need some kind of help. In order to move them. In order to find a place that they can safely remain. In order to continue concealing their presence.

"Ratchet?" Lennox prompts him again, a touch of concern in his voice.

The medic lifts a hand, gesturing for Lennox to move from his shoulder and onto his palm.

"Lennox," Ratchet whispers as the man completes the shift, looking up at Ratchet and completely at ease twenty feet above the ground. "You once said that I could trust you. Now, I'm afraid I must test that promise."

"What's going on, Ratchet?" He folds his arms over his chest. "Is this about Mearing?"

"I can't explain it here." Ratchet glances around.

The Autobots and gathered NEST soldiers have dispersed to their respective duties. The aircraft has already risen into the air, heading for the Laurentian Abyss. Prime appears to be deeply in discussion with Mearing. No one is paying them strict attention, but that doesn't mean no one's listening. There are too many eyes and ears on the base.

"I'm asking for trust, William," he continues, optics catching and holding the human's blue eyes. "I need your help, and time is against me."

He doesn't know if it's the gravity in his vocal tones or the anxiety that runs across his plating in a tangible shudder that convinces the colonel. But Lennox nods sharply.

"Okay," he says. "Let's talk."

Ratchet lowers his hand to the ground so Lennox can step down and then drops into his alt-mode. His passenger door swings open in invitation.

Lennox doesn't hesitate, not even for a second. He climbs into the seat and settles comfortably. Ratchet swings the door shut and heads toward the gate. This time, no one stops them, the guard waving them through without a second glance.

"What's this about?" Lennox asks, once they're in Chicago and out of the line of sight of their comrades.

Ratchet drives in silence for a moment, steering toward Sector 16. He considers what he's going to say, how he's going to approach this. He's taking a huge risk here. Lennox could just as easily turn on him, tell Prime the truth, have Ratchet in the brig for his betrayal and the Seekers executed.

Ironhide had trusted him though. With his past. With his life.

For that, Ratchet will take this chance.

"What I'm about to tell you, Lennox, could put both our lives at risk."

The colonel stares pointedly at the radio dials. That's where most humans seem to direct their attention toward.

"I'll take that chance."

"Lennox-"

"Are you a terrorist, Ratchet?" he interrupts, eyebrows lifting. "You gonna assassinate the president or kill Prime in his sleep?"

"No!" Ratchet is horrified by the mere suggestion.

"Then tell me!" Lennox insists. "I can take it."

Ratchet turns down an adjoining side street, one thankfully clear of detritus. There is no way to say this than other to be blunt. Tact won't help him here.

"Ten weeks ago, I discovered a pair of Decepticon Seekers in Chicago's ruins. They were alive."

Lennox doesn't even pause before saying, "You didn't kill them."

"No."

"And you didn't tell Prime."

"Again, no."

Lennox takes a deep, audible breath. "You fixed them."

The colonel's tone is perfectly neutral, which makes it difficult for Ratchet to gauge his opinion. But so far, things seem to be going well.

"They are not fully operational yet but essentially, yes," Ratchet replies.

Silence fills the space between them, filled with the negligible shifts as Ratchet steers over and around the debris-strewn road.

"_Why?_" Lennox finally breathes.

"For reasons you can't understand."

"Try me."

Ratchet cycles his cooling system and pulls to a stop inside an alley just across from the warehouse where his Seekers are hidden. He sinks down on his hydraulics.

"We are so few now, Lennox. And what we do we have left to fight over? Once, I used to be a diplomat and a healer. If the war is truly over, then I long to be so again."

Lennox scrubs a hand over his hair, slouching down in the seat. He exhales audibly again, a touch of frustration accompanying the noise.

"Humans go to war all the time. We've never wiped ourselves out like you guys have." His frown deepens into a scowl. "I can't imagine fighting until there's no one left. I'm a soldier, Ratchet; it's what I do. But even I don't get how Prime _or_ Megatron could let things get so far."

"Neither do I."

Perhaps the human can understand this. There's a point, several of them even, that the war could've ended. But both Prime and Megatron had kept on fighting through it. Until the reasons for the fighting in the first place were drowned beneath a deluge of pain and death.

"You're telling me this now." Lennox rubs his palms down his thigh. His gaze shifts to the window and the enclosing dim of the alleyway. "So I can only guess that something's happened."

"I've kept them hidden, but they're in Sector 16. _This _sector."

"The one next on Mearing's list. You'll need to move them then." His eyes narrow in thought. "You said they were Seekers. Like Starscream? Couldn't they just fly?"

Ratchet flags their current status and skims it. "Skywarp is capable, but Thundercracker's thruster is unstable. He can't make sustained flight."

"And the evil, ruthless 'Con won't leave his friend behind." Lennox's words are thick with bitterness. "What can I do?"

Were Ratchet in his root mode, he would've cycled his optics in surprise. As it is, he reboots his audials.

"Do you realize what you're agreeing to, Lennox?"

"I damn well get it, Ratchet," he retorts fiercely. "I'm an adult. I know what I'm doing. So what do you _need_?"

A surge of affection pulses through Ratchet's spark for this human, this one man who is the best his species could offer. One of the few that Ratchet can dare consider kin.

"A place to hide them. A means to get them there. And a glitch in the systems to conceal their relocation."

"We can detect Cybertronian hacks now. I see why you needed some help." Lennox nods, inhaling with deliberation. "Okay. We got two days. I know where you can keep them. Just have to figure out how to get them there."

"Where?"

"You know that my grandfather died last year. Left me this huge house up in North Dakota, but who the hell wants to live there? So it's sitting empty." Lennox's lips curve with a smile. "There's acres of open land and very little populace."

"That is most kind of you." Ratchet stumbles, uncertain how to word himself properly. "I owe you many thanks, Lennox. This goes above and beyond-"

"You don't owe me anything," the human puts in firmly and reaches out, tentatively patting Ratchet's dashboard like he has probably done so many times before with Hide. "You guys gave up everything to protect Earth, and the best my government can do is make you sleep in a warehouse. It's enough to make me hate my own kind, you know."

Ratchet swings open the door so that Lennox can get out. Then, he slides into his bipedal form, stretching his limbs comfortably.

"We brought our war to you first."

"But you didn't have to stay. You didn't have to protect us. It would've been easier, I know, to just let the 'Cons have Earth and keep going. Especially after the Allspark was destroyed."

He looks down at the small human. "Nevertheless, I will find some way to express my gratitude."

Ratchet straightens and peers out of the alley, into the street. No intelligent life to be found.

"For now, allow me to introduce you to my patients."

"They're not going to try to kill me?" Lennox poses. "Because this isn't the way I want to die. I haven't even had the chance to threaten any of Annabelle's future boyfriends."

A small chuckle leaves Ratchet as he crosses the street and ducks under the collapsed pillar that hides the opening. Ironhide was right about this one.

"As long as you're with me, you should be fine. I would, however, suggest that you let me do the talking. At least at first."

"Gotcha."

Lennox falls silent and lets Ratchet take the lead. He moves carefully through the delicately balanced debris, sending an identity ping ahead of himself so that Thundercracker and Skywarp know that he's coming. He wraps a warning that he's not alone with it.

"Primus, TC, he's even _worse _today. Mech needs to cross cables and soon," Skywarp drawls as Ratchet steps into view. At present, the darker Seeker is crouched on the ground behind Thundercracker, who leans forward so that Skywarp can peer into his left thruster.

Ratchet tosses a glare at the irritating mech. "Get your digits out of his thruster. I don't want you to frag up my hard work."

"I'm a Seeker, medic. I know more about this than you do," Skywarp retorts with a sneer, optics flashing.

"You know field repairs. Not delicate fine-tuning. Claws. _Off_."

"Warp," Thundercracker says, waving a hand at his trinemate. "He's right."

Skywarp huffs, dropping his hands and rising to his pedes. "You were the one complaining about an itch in your sensory line. See if I help you again." He shifts a glare to Ratchet, dropping heavily onto the makeshift berth. "You said you weren't alone. Forget how to count, medic?"

"He has a human with him," Thundercracker corrects, his optics glancing past Ratchet to Lennox who's wisely hovering behind Ratchet's left leg. "Fine tune your sensors, scraplet."

"Older than you," Skywarp grumbles and nibbles on the end of a clawtip. "What did ya bring a fleshbag for? I don't need any more toys."

"He's not a toy," Ratchet replies with a noticeable rev of his engine. "Lennox is here because I need his help. And so do you."

"From a human? Unlikely." Thundercracker straightens and fails to hide his wince as something pinches in his dorsal armor. Likely whatever had prompted him to make the ill-conceived request of Skywarp to take a look.

Ratchet ventilates loudly and storms between the Seekers, circling around Thundercracker and gripping the back of his neck. He pushes Thundercracker forward to get a better look at him, activating his personal scanners. A crimped sensory line is the obvious perpetrator and a pressed cydraulic line, too. No wonder he feels... _irritated_.

"You have to be moved," Lennox says, speaking for himself now that the Decepticons haven't instantly aimed to kill. "NEST operatives will be moving to clear this sector soon, and there's a high chance they'll find you."

Skywarp makes a rude noise. "We can handle humans."

"But can you handle the Autobots that'll accompany them?" Lennox challenges defiantly. "You know Prime's not going to ask you to lay down your arms. He's shooting to kill."

Thundercracker hisses through his denta as Ratchet frees the crimped line but doesn't pull away.

"Such a wise and honorable Prime," he sneers.

"We have a plan," Ratchet informs them. "You can either let us help you. Or become another set of statistics for Prime and the Autobots."

Skywarp's helm swivels toward Ratchet, an almost malicious look in his optics.

"You say that like you're not an Autobot, medic. You defecting? You a 'Con now?"

"Of course not," he snaps and tugs on Thundercracker's plating a bit too hard, prompting a snarled curse. "I know where my loyalties lie."

Thundercracker's wings flick. "Do you?" Unlike his trinemate, his question is sincere, not a mockery. "You don't sound certain."

"I'm not a Decepticon," Ratchet responds decisively and steps back, having completed the brief repair work. "I'm not having this discussion now. We don't have a lot of time."

"Ratchet's right." Lennox dares another few steps forward, running hands over his hair. "In a day or two, this sector will be swarming with soldiers. We need to move you now."

Skywarp sits up, wings shifting behind him. "What's the plan?"

As Lennox starts to speak, outlining a brilliant plan that is all the more impressive for how quickly he must have concocted it, Ratchet looks upon the situation with nothing less than disbelief. An Autobot, two Decepticons, and a human.

This is a punchline worthy of Jazz. And he knows the mech would be laughing his armor off about right now.

An Autobot, two Decepticons, and a human. All lying to their respective factions, all reaching for something more.

What that something is, however, has yet to be named.

* * *

a/n: Feedback is very welcome.


	5. Ratchet Part Five

**War Without End: Ratchet**_  
_

**Part Five  
**

* * *

_Ratchet lingers outside the open door, staring at the wrenched metal that had literally been torn open. The attackers hadn't bothered with hacking the panel, opting instead for brute force. Beyond the door is a hallway, the overhead lights flickering in and out, casting eerie shadows. The splatters of energon are visible nonetheless, though the subtle glow is ebbing away as it decays._

_He doesn't want to go inside. His fingers curl tightly around his medkit. There aren't going to be survivors. Why did he bother? He's the senior medic on scene; he is supposed to go inside. But he can't seem to make his pedes move._

"_Ratchet."_

_He stirs at the sound of his designation. He turns to acknowledge the presence of his commanding officer. _

"_Ultra Magnus."_

_Prime's brother-in-bond meets Ratchet's gaze. His energy field is tightly contained, but the emotions are too visible in the way he holds himself. _

"_I could call Hoist, if you prefer."_

_Ratchet jerks his optics away, forcing a ventilation through his systems. _

"_No," he denies, tanks roiling as he stares at the decaying energon. "I won't force him to endure this. His spark is gentler than mine."_

"_I think you underestimate yourself, old friend."_

_Ratchet doesn't reply, forcing his pedes to obey his orders and move forward, entering through the gaping hole of the main entrance. His sensors pick up the sounds of movement ahead of him, the three-mech team of soldiers who cleared the rooms of possible hostiles. Not that there are any to be found. Whoever committed this atrocity is long gone._

**Decepticons**.

_His processor wants to accuse their most recent foe, but Ratchet isn't sure what to believe. Megatron is Lord High Protector. Surely he wouldn't sanction such a horrifying and pointless attack. What use would it serve? There's no advantage to be gained here. Unless demoralizing the Autobots and some of his own slagged troops is what he had in mind._

_Frame hitching, Ratchet calls upon his steel-spun will and presses on. The first room is empty, but there are signs of a struggle. Broken furniture, energon splatters, claw indentations, drag marks. It makes him shudder. He keeps going, the lights casting macabre shapes everywhere. He cuts on his headlights, though his scanners tell him all he needs to know._

_Another room is empty. Another. _

_The fourth is – _was_ – inhabited. No longer. There are three inside, two mechs and a femme. An adult and two younglings, the elder curled around the younger as though to protect them. The blast had struck the adult mech from behind. Strong enough to cut through his civilian plating, straight through his spark, and out the other side where the younglings and their softer metal had no defense. All three, taken in a single blow._

_Ratchet leaves as quickly as he enters, a soldier slipping in behind him to retrieve the empty frames for proper burial. To record designations and hopefully contact kin, if any can be found._

_It's a blur. A blur of death, death, and more death. The heavy ion scent of weaponry hangs in the air. The floor is gummy with spilled energon._

"_Medic!"_

_One of the soldiers hollers, and Ratchet breaks into a run, spark whirling in his frame. Someone's pinging him with a location, and Ratchet follows it, sensing the urgency in the ping. _

_A survivor. They actually found a survivor!_

_He skids to a halt near an open doorway and hurries to the side of two bots, hovering over the sluggishly bleeding and tiny frame of a youngling. Ratchet drops to his knees, fearing he doesn't even have equipment small enough to pierce the narrow lines and handle the delicate frame._

_The little one's spark pulse is fading fast. His gold optics flickering like the overhead lights. One hand weakly clutches at a soldier's. His other arm is missing. He's been clawed from clavicle to hip strut, and Ratchet doesn't even need his sensors to see the state of the young one's spark. The spark chamber's been breached._

_It's a Primus-given miracle that the little one has clung to life this long._

_Performing a systems check, Ratchet reaches for the youngling, relieved that his hands aren't shaking. An energy field frantic with pain and fear grips onto Ratchet's own, making his chassis tremble. The little one clicks at him, reduced to the tonalities of sparkling language._

"_I'm here," Ratchet says with a gentleness that would surprise his usual patients, the rough and tumble warriors of the Autobot army. "I can help you. It'll be all right."_

_At least, he wants to believe it will be so. The damage is so severe. He almost doesn't know where to begin. Torn and ravaged energon lines. The spark chamber breach. Energon a pool beneath the little one._

_He gets to work, murmuring encouraging words, hands moving swiftly. He seals off leaking lines, sets up an energon drip, and whips out small strips of temporary metal to protect the little one's spark casing. He works as though the fires of the pit are chasing his heels, trying to pull the youngling from the arms of the soldiers still holding him._

_Something happens. The little one twitches beneath him, optics flaring bright. One arm spasms, flailing out. His spark stutters._

"_No!" Ratchet curses a solid stream of invectives, some not even Cybertronian in nature, and snarls at the soldiers still in the room. He needs more hands._

_He's not going to let this youngling offline. He's _**not**_._

"_Ratchet._"

He jerks out of the memory purge, sensors rapidly scanning, spark feeling too tight for its casing. One hand flutters to his chestplate, feeling the strong thrum of his spark beneath. The memory is fresh, all too fresh, despite how long ago that attack had happened. At the beginning of the war, to be honest. When hostilities had first broken out between the newly designated factions.

The youngling hadn't made it. So many of them hadn't made it.

Ratchet's plating clamps tightly down to his frame, and he bows his head, shuttering his optics. The attack wasn't one of the first, nor was it one of the worst. The youngling wasn't the first mech to die in Ratchet's hands, and he wasn't the last.

How many times had he patched up a soldier from the battlefield, sent him or her out again, only to have repeat the process over again? How many times had he brought a bot back from the brink of death, only to fail the next time around?

-Ratchet.-

Someone's pinging his personal comm channel. A specific one, in fact, that only a choice couple mechs and a single human have the codes to connect. With the Seekers being over an eleven hour drive away now, the contact by comm has become necessary.

-Do you have any idea what time it is, Skywarp?- Ratchet demands as he forces several ventilations through his system. His HUD chimes with alerts for more energon and a reminder that his much-needed defrag cycle had been interrupted.

-Not a clue,- the Seeker replies with far too much cheer.

Ratchet checks his chronometer. He's been in recharge for only a joor, and right now, it's the dead hours right before sunrise. He's got a maintenance scheduled first thing in the morning, too.

He slings his arms over his eyes, shifting about on the medberth, which is only slightly more comfortable than recharging in alt-mode. But it's not like the humans have given them personal quarters, furniture, or any privacy.

-It's too slagging early, is what it is. What the frag do you want_?_-

-It's cold here.-

Ratchet has begun to wonder if he's lost his sanity. This only makes him certain of it.

His palm slides over his face as he stills. -You commed me to whine about the temperature?-

-It's snowing,- Skywarp complains, and the comm still manages to carry the distinct, annoying pitch of a Seeker's whine. -And it hasn't stopped snowing since that idiot dropped us here. Couldn't you have picked somewhere warmer?-

Sparklings. He feels like he's adopted a pair of fraggin' sparklings.

Ratchet's spark lurches then, the memory purge fresh on his processor.

-I didn't have the luxury of choice,- he retorts.

And really, he didn't. For all it had been ridiculously easy to hide the Seekers from sight and scanners, they didn't have much choice in where to stash them after that.

At least, they'd been quiet in the warehouse though.

-Skywarp…- Ratchet shakes his head, even though the other mech can't see it. -…Do you remember the bombing of Ultrix?-

A moment of silence passes over the connection. Skywarp is most likely searching his memory core.

-Uhh. That was a long time ago, Ratchet. Back at the beginning of the war. I hadn't joined the Decepticons yet.-

-You must have heard of it. Ultrix was the first major offensive.-

Though no one could ever prove that it had been the 'Cons who machinated the attack, it was a general assumption amongst the populace. One Megatron had never sought to disprove.

-The youth sector took the most damage,- Ratchet continued.

Comprehension must have dawned because Ratchet can all but sense the wince in Skywarp's reaction.

-Yeah. I remember it,- he allows slowly. -What about it?-

-Did Megatron order that attack?-

Now, Skywarp sounds annoyed. -I already told you that was before my time. You could've asked Starscream if that squishy hadn't blown his processor off.-

-Would Thundercracker know?-

-TC joined even later than I did.- Skywarp huffs across the comm. -What does it matter anyway? Thinking of payback?-

Ratchet exvents softly. -I was there. I wonder, to this day, what could have possessed Megatron to consider it a viable target.-

-How should I know? Old Megs has always been a few circuits short of a board. Though I wouldn't take him for a sparkling killer. He was always… well, not tender. Megatron isn't tender. But he didn't bully the hatchlings. Not really.-

Ratchet reboots his comm system. -Wait. _Hatchlings?_-

This is news to Ratchet. Since when did the Decepticons have access to hatchlings?

-Yeah. The Fallen's ship had hundreds of stasis-locked pods. Unfortunately, what we didn't have was energon,- Skywarp responds with a matter-of-fact tone, like reciting a shopping list or something else equally mundane.

Ratchet's processor is reeling with recognition. -The drones…-

-You didn't know?-

Honest confusion filters through the comm.

-We didn't realize.-

Ratchet feels like smacking himself in the helm, smacking all of the Autobots. They had thought the nameless, nude protoforms to be drones. Not unsparked frames. Not _younglings_.

Skywarp grinds his mouth components together, the noise carrying across the comm. -Stupid Autobots.-

-Why did Megatron online them if he didn't have the Allspark?- Ratchet demands, unable to fathom the crazed leader's rationale. To use drones in battle is one thing. To involve unsparked protoforms is an entirely different matter!

-He needed troops.-

Once again, Skywarp sounds far too nonchalant about the whole line of conversation.

Ratchet's spark lurches. -That's horrible.-

-Or practical. Take your pick.-

Frag 'Con logic to the pits.

-Where's the Fallen's ship now?-

-Gone. Megatron and Starscream moved the rest of the hatchlings to their base here. Though they're probably all dead now.-

Once again, Ratchet has to reboot his comm system. Skywarp's words and the reaction he's having to them don't seem to match up logically.

-_What?_-

-The only ones who knew where they were are dead now.- Skywarp transmits a contemplative chirp. -Even if we wanted to help them, we wouldn't know where to start. Besides, without the Allspark, what's the point?-

Words fail Ratchet. -You can't... I can't..._ Younglings!_-

That is all his shocked processor can manage right now. They'd fought younglings, slaughtered younglings.

Primus! They're still destroying younglings. The various 'Cons scattered across the globe and in hiding. The Autobots had believed them to be drones as well, the majority of them at any rate.

-Warp's right, you know,- Thundercracker's voice cuts into the comm effortlessly. Either Skywarp had given him the key for this specific conversation, or he'd hacked it. -Without the Allspark, they won't be anything more than pseudo-aware frames. Barely better than drones.-

Ratchet grits his denta. -That doesn't make leaving them to starve to death _right_.-

-Autobot sentimentalities.- Skywarp makes a derisive noise. -What can we do? We can't get to them. We have no energon to sustain them.-

-Sparkless 'Cons. _All_ life is precious,- Ratchet growls.

Anger floods the comm in a heavy tide. -Unless they're Decepticons, right?- Thundercracker demands.

-We were at war!-

-If that's the argument that eases your conscience,- Thundercracker snaps his words into the comm, thick with bitterness.

Ratchet's hands form fists. -Don't tell me you never killed an Autobot.-

-We all have energon on our hands. But I'm through with listening to Autobots hide behind their hypocritical ideals while ripping out the sparks of their enemies.- Thundercracker's tones are icy with a sense of betrayal that's deeply personal. -At least I'm honest about what I am.-

Silence fills the empty space of the comm.

Ratchet concentrates on his frame as he tries to calm the frantic whirling of his spark. The Seekers are both right and wrong. He can't imagine simply abandoning the hatchlings. But he doesn't have any way to retrieve them either. That he can't argue over Thundercracker's characterization of Autobot ideals is perhaps the most telling fact to take away from this.

-I'm a medic, Thundercracker. And a mech who's fragging tired of this pointless war.- Ratchet slumps. -That's all I can claim to be. Was there something else you needed?-

-It's cold!- Skywarp cuts in, back to whining.

-Ignore the sparkling. This location will suffice,- Thundercracker replies, tones stiff and indicating that their discussion is hardly over. -It's perfectly isolated.-

-Good to know,- Ratchet says and surprises himself by actually meaning the sentiment. -Try not to let the sparkling hurt himself. I'm a long drive away.-

A strained chuckle spills into the distance between them.

-He'll have it coming if he does. Thundercracker, out.-

Ratchet stares up at the bland warehouse ceiling. They're not quite friends, the old wounds of a lifetime of war making that particular truth a long time coming. But they're reluctant allies. It's enough for now.

He offlines his optics, trying to slide back into recharge, hoping that the memory purges will leave him be.

Hatchlings. _Primus._

o0o0o

Bumblebee shows up bright and early, so early in fact that Ratchet had just barely tumbled off the medberth before the young scout appeared in the open doorway of his medcorner. Bee's face flits with amused surprise as Ratchet cycles his optics, processor booting sluggishly.

-Long night?- Bee asks across a narrow-band comm, looking but finding nothing that could possibly explain Ratchet's behavior.

His confusion is logical. Ratchet is very rarely caught flatfooted.

"Something like that." The medic grunts, his HUD pinging him a reminder to refuel. He could go a few more hours yet though. "You're early."

Bee steps inside, pedes a bare whisper against the concrete floor. -Didn't have anywhere better to be.- He lifts a hand, fingers running over his neck components pointedly.

"Where's Samuel?"

-With Carly. I guess.- Bumblebee's shoulders lift and drop casually; there's something unsettling about his lack of usual exuberance. -Mearing's still trying to keep him out of the loop.-

Ratchet huffs. "That woman never learns." He slides off the berth, joints giving an unoiled screech. "Up here with you."

-She thinks she's keeping him safe.- Bee hops on, legs swinging over the side like the youngling he used to be.

Ratchet lets out a noise.

Safe. Right. Nowhere is ever going to be safe.

He pulls out his scanner, activating it.

"Any complaints? Now's the time to voice them. So to speak."

Bumblebee's vocalizer works in fits and bursts. Ratchet despairs of ever fixing it properly.

-Left hip. It's not setting right.- Bee moves said joint to prove his point with the sound of metal grinding improperly.

Hmm, that will have to be attended.

"Anything else?" Ratchet's scanner beeps and a list of Bee's vital levels pop up on the screen. He scrolls through them, finding nothing out of the ordinary, and sets the scanner aside.

Other than the hip – and the vocalizer – the scout's in perfect repair.

Ratchet reaches for Bee's leg, unlatching the first layer of outer armor so he can get to the gears beneath. He sets the plating aside when Bumblebee finally answers him.

-Mikaela was in Chicago. -

Startling, Ratchet draws back.

"What?"

Bumblebee doesn't meet his gaze. Looking past him instead, hands locked on the berth, a tight grip.

-She'd just moved there. A few months before the Decepticons attacked. -

Ratchet honestly can't think of what to say and simply blurts the first thing that comes to mind.

"Did she make it?

The expression on Bee's face says everything he doesn't. Ratchet shutters his optics for a few sparkpulses.

"Does Sam know?"

-I haven't told him.-

"It's probably best that you don't." Ratchet doesn't know what else to say but this.

Mikaela had hurt more than Samuel in her sudden abandonment. Ratchet's not surprised that Bee had kept tabs on his former friend. They had so few human companions on Earth, especially those worth trusting.

Bee's helm dips. -I know.-

"Did she ever tell you why?"

-No.- The scout lifts his gaze to Ratchet, optics a painfully pale shade. -It came out of nowhere, Ratchet. One day, they were in love. The next... I don't know.-

Ratchet remembers. He'd expected there to be rumors of long weeks spent in fierce, bitter arguing. He'd expected tales of stony silences, tears shed, and a gradual deterioration of their relationship. Instead, Bumblebee had reported Mikaela's abrupt dismissal and equally abrupt exodus from their life.

Samuel had refused to talk about it beyond saying that he'd made his choice and Bee was it. No amount of cajoling on Bee's part could convince him otherwise. And then, it all became a moot point because Mearing came into the picture, effectively shunting Sam out of association with the Autobots. She'd also done her very best to replace the familiar members of NEST with unfamiliar faces, ones who didn't warm up to the Autobots as quickly as their prior brothers-in-arms. She'd been successful in convincing Epps to take another post and only Lennox's stubbornness had kept him in command. He'd refused to leave Ironhide.

It seemed as though one by one, Mearing had been stripping them of their allies, anyone who would treat the Autobots as people. Who could see them as something more than war machines. Even if, in truth, Ratchet fears that is what they've become.

"_Attention! Incoming unidentified object detected!_"

Alert sirens flash and wail, cutting into the somber discussion.

Ratchet's attention immediately diverts. His spark drops into his tanks. No. Not again. He can't stand there and watch them mercilessly shoot another Decepticon out of the sky.

-An Autobot?- Bee chirrups, sliding off the berth with less enthusiasm than usual, desperately trying to chase away his somber mood.

"I can only hope," Ratchet mutters and turns on a pede, hurrying out of his medcorner.

No one's summoned him. Or the Autobots. Curiouser and curiouser. But he'd like to see them try and stop him.

Unsurprisingly, Prime is there before anyone else, his optics locked on the screen.

"Cybertronian?" he asks.

"We believe so, yes," Lennox answers.

Mearing, thank Primus, is nowhere in sight. Perhaps she's gone back to DC for a face-to-face debriefing.

"Decepticon?" Ratchet asks, fingers curling into fists at his side. Never has he wished so hard for it to be an Autobot arrival. If only to spare a spark.

A moment of heavy, anxious silence spills through ops. Footsteps announce the arrival of other Autobots: Bee, the Wreckers, Dino. Sideswipe's probably in recharge.

"Comm systems confirm," one of the techs replies, and her lips widen in a happy grin. "Autobot signal."

Just one? The Autobots have all arrived in a group of some kind, but this arrival is by his or her lonesome.

"Coming in hard and fast, too," another techie inserts, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Trajectory uneven. The transmission seems to be automatic."

Prime swings his gaze toward Ratchet. "Injury?"

"Has to be. If the poor fragger's even alive at all," Ratchet growls. "Projected landing coordinates?"

There's another pause as calculations are made.

"Shit," the tech mutters and cranes his neck, looking over his shoulder up at Prime. "He's, uh, going to land right on top of us. If he doesn't deviate."

Ratchet's frame stutters.

"Time?" Prime demands.

"Three minutes, sir. Max."

Ratchet whirls on a pede and drops into alt-mode, screeching out of the main warehouse, sirens wailing to clear the way He can hear Prime right behind him, engine growling, and no doubt the others are coming, too. Ahead of them, the alert systems start screaming a warning to the soldiers and civilians. Informing them about the incoming, urging them to take shelter in bunkers.

Outside, Ratchet turns his sensors upward, scanning the skies for signs of the Autobot's arrival. They aren't kidding about the rate of descent. He's tearing through the atmosphere so fast he's leaving streaks of flame in his wake. His trajectory is wobbling.

"He's going to overshoot," Leadfoot says, appearing at Ratchet's left elbow. "He's not going to hit the base, he's going to-"

''-slam into the river. Slaggit!" Ratchet snarls and takes off, the rest right behind him.

The roads aren't as clear as Ratchet would like, still choked with potholes save for a single lane cleared to allow the passing of emergency vehicles and supply transports. He doesn't get there in time to see the Autobot land, though his sensors pick up the tremors that radiate outward from the area.

Ratchet arrives just as the mech pulls himself out of the river, movements slow and stilted as water sluices off his protoform. He'll need an alt-mode soon, Ratchet decides absently. He doesn't immediately recognize this arrival, and he surreptitiously starts to scan the unfamiliar frame, reports pinging back a mech in desperate need of maintenance.

Prime, mere seconds behind Ratchet, shifts from to root-mode in one smooth motion.

"Unidentified Autobot," he rumbles stiffly. "State your designation and team."

The mech doesn't salute, but his optics skip first from Ratchet and then to Prime.

"Drift, sir," he says. "Formerly stationed on the Solanus."

Ratchet's optics spiral outward. The Solanus? Last he'd heard, it was destroyed by the Decepticons.

"Drift?" Someone repeats behind Ratchet, the voice identifying Leadfoot. Or the snarl, rather. "You mean _Deadlock_."

Drift's plating clamps down tight to his frame, his stance rigid and contained. "I'm no longer that mech."

Leadfoot growls. "Ya can change your designation, but that don't change what you are."

"What's going on here?"

The voice, all too human, cuts into their conversation, and Ratchet's spark sinks at the sound of it.

So, Mearing is still here after all. And as they had been speaking in Cybertronian, she wouldn't have understood the conversation between them.

Prime turns to face her; Ratchet only directs a sensor toward her.

"We have a new arrival, Director. Another ally."

Leadfoot makes a disdainful grind of gears. "He's no ally."

Mearing only glances at the Wrecker. He's usually beneath her notice.

"He doesn't seem to think so."

"He's a Decepticon," Dino says with more vitriol than Ratchet could have expected out of the red mech. Perhaps there's something personal between himself and Drift.

"I'd prefer to be neutral," Drift says tightly, easily adjusting in the shift from Cybertronian to English. Prime must have data-burst him the language pack.

Mearing's eyes narrow, one heeled foot tapping impatiently against the ground. "We don't house neutrals here. Either Prime is your figure of authority, or you can leave."

In other words, the humans don't want any loose cannons mucking about. Which may be yet another cog in the wheel explaining why they don't like the wandering 'Cons.

Ratchet waits for Prime to say something to the contrary. That it isn't up to the humans.

He waits in vain, however. And he should have known not to expect anything from their leader.

Prime instead inclines his head in acknowledgment of Mearing's statement and redirects his attention to Drift. "There were four others assigned to the Solanus. Where is the rest of your team?"

The unadorned head dips ever so slightly. "Smokescreen, Blurr, and Springer are dead," Drift replies, and his systems audibly cycle down. "Perceptor and I were separated."

"Separated?" Leadfoot tosses Drift a sidelong look, taking another step back and putting more distance between himself and the former 'Con. "Probably killed them all yourself. Too much extra baggage."

Ratchet expects anger. Those are the kinds of accusations that get mechs shot. Drift, however, neither raises his weapons nor snarls with fury. His plating clamps down tighter, if possible, even defensively. But he doesn't speak. His optics remain on Prime, waiting for their leader to pass judgment.

"He's a spy, Prime," Dino insists with more that inexplicable vitriol.

Drift's flinch is less noticeable this time, but Ratchet is watching him too closely to miss it.

"Your transmission said that the war is over," Drift inserts, focusing on Prime alone. "That this planet is our home now. Is this true?"

Prime studies him. "Yes, the Decepticons have been defeated."

Drift nods, his helm lowering as though this news is something to mourn. Interesting.

"I see. That is good news." His vocal tones don't support his sentiment though.

Ratchet shifts, trying to catch someone's attention. "Prime, protocol," he reminds his leader.

It's his right, after all, to drag in any new arrival for a full checkup, and Drift needs an alt-mode and some rest. Not to stand here and be glared at by most of the Autobots, while Mearing eyes him with her special brand of disdain.

Prime gestures to him. "You remember my medic, Ratchet. He will see to your injuries and help you get settled."

"I don't think this is a good idea, Prime," Topspin says, backing up Leadfoot. Beside them, Roadbuster gives a show of support but says nothing.

"Drift has chosen to be an Autobot. I will give him the benefit of the doubt," Prime finally decides.

Not a single one of them considers asking _Drift_ what he thinks about the whole situation. Ratchet supposes that they're at least calling him a traitor to his face rather than to his back. He doesn't know which would be worse.

"You're own allies don't trust him," Mearing comments then. "So if a single human is harmed, I'm holding you accountable, Prime."

"Understood."

Not a single argument. What's this broken creature inhabiting the frame of their Prime? Have the deaths of Megatron and Sentinel truly shattered Optimus' spark? Doesn't he have any _pride_?

"Everyone, dismissed," Prime adds.

He gestures to the crowd of Autobots that have gathered. There are humans present, too, NEST soldiers and a few curious techs who came along for the ride. They start to disperse. Mearing doesn't look happy about Prime's decisions. Ratchet can see the storm brewing in her eyes, even as she digs out her cellphone and starts making calls.

Prime wants this to be their home. But how many before they are _too _many? Before the humans draw the line and say no more Cybertronians are welcome?

What then?

Ratchet ventilates and beckons Drift toward him. "Come on then," he says, more gruffly than he intended, but there are too many thoughts swirling about in his processor to waste circuits politeness. "We'll have to walk until you find an alt-mode you like."

Drift nods. Not one for conversation, is he?

Ratchet leads the way, barely hearing Drift behind him. The mech walks like he's had some kind of Special Ops training. And maybe he has.

Ratchet pings his databanks, trying to drag up anything he knows of him. Deadlock, he remembers, had been a brutal and vicious killer. No pity, no remorse. He isn't the type of Decepticon Ratchet would have pegged for switching sides. If anything, Deadlock had been the posterbot for 'Con brutality. He'd been Turmoil's second-in-command, another mech also known for brutality.

Drift, by outward appearances, hardly seems to match the Decepticon he'd been. Ratchet doesn't know much about him. Has met him only once in passing before the Autobots had split across the universe in search of the Allspark. In fact, Ratchet has only rumors to draw upon, and one rumor in particular has circulated with such continuing persistence that he wonders if it is fact.

"Will this do?"

Ratchet startles out of his pondering, turning toward the car that Drift is standing next to. It's probably one of the vehicles in better repair around here, by virtue of the fact it hasn't been crushed or set aflame. It's in remarkably good shape considering. And a quick internet search provides the make and model.

"It's up to you," Ratchet replies with a shrug. "Some of us go for utility. Some of us like something a bit more... _flashy_."

And no, he doesn't immediately think of Sideswipe or Dino. Or Bee, who picks the newest model of Camaro every chance he gets, which doesn't quite fit in with his position as _scout_.

Satisfied with his answer, Drift scans the vehicle and then shifts into his newly acquired alt-mode, each twist and turn of his frame slow and measured. He revs his engine experimentally, lifting up and sinking down on his hydraulics as he tests out his new form.

"Does it fit?" Ratchet asks, a bit of a smile teasing at his mouth.

"It'll do," Drift replies. His vocals are tinny as they transmit through the air.

Amused, Ratchet shifts as well and then leads Drift back to their temporary base, which has gone back to business as usual now that the all clear has been given. Prime, no doubt, will be locked into meetings with Mearing and the human command chain again. He seems to spend all this time there as of late.

Sideswipe's probably still in recharge, lazy aft that he is. It looks like Dino's heading out for some rescue and recovery. The Wreckers... well, Mearing likes to keep them close to base. Now that she can't ship them off to Florida and out of the way, she only allows Prime to send them on 'Con-slaughtering missions.

Allows.

Ratchet huffs. Optimus is their Prime. He's supposed to be the one issuing orders. But now, he looks to the humans first. Seeks permission. Plays the loyal servant.

It's enough to make Ratchet's tanks churn.

"So this is our home."

Drift's tone is bland, showing neither approval or disapproval.

"Temporary," Ratchet corrects as he leads Drift to the main warehouse and the far corner that serves as his medbay. "Though our previous facilities weren't much better."

Their headquarters in DC had been more spacious, more state of the art and more defensible. But in the end, they were still warehouses that lacked privacy and the distinct feeling of home. They felt more like a prison.

Drift returns to root mode, the new lines of his alt-mode clearly visible on his plating now. He's in shades of white with the occasional line of crimson to break up the monotony. Two crests, reminiscent of a Praxian's chevron, decorate his helm. And it's only then that Ratchet notices the sheath peeking up over Drift's right shoulder.

Ah, that's right. His file states that he is a swordsmech. Must've had it in subspace before.

"Your medbay appears underequipped," Drift notes almost dryly.

"Tell me something I don't know," Ratchet agrees and pulls out his scanner. "Up on the berth."

The new arrival complies, his optics still gathering data on his surroundings. "The native population doesn't appear to be very friendly. Or welcoming."

"Mearing is not the best example of her species."

Ratchet sets a reminder to introduce Lennox and Epps to Drift. He wishes Graham were here as well. He has the feeling the two would get along.

But Graham is yet another of those whom Mearing had managed to successfully drive away, not but two months after the battle for Chicago. The Americans remain aligned with the British, but there's no longer a British representative amongst NEST.

Ratchet's scanner beeps at him. He scowls at the device.

"Primus, you need a coolant flush."

Not to mention two struts that require realigning, several stripped gears, a fluctuating heat capacitor, and shorts in his sensory net.

"Among other things." Drift lifts a hand, giving it to Ratchet as the medic reaches forward. "I am... used to suspicion. But I must I didn't expect an unfriendly atmosphere."

Ratchet sighs, hating himself for the human mannerism. "It's a long story. Or I could just give you the data packet if you'll trust me with a cable."

A port is offered to him in the very next ventilation cycle.

"You aren't wary of me," the other mech observes. "Why?"

"Because I believe that mechs can change," Ratchet replies honestly, thinking of his Seekers and the other 'Cons who just need a chance. "Though I may be the last who thinks that way now."

"I noticed." Drift pauses, helm tilting as Ratchet initiates the transfer. "It's a large file."

"We've been here for five years. A lot has happened."

Ratchet bends over Drift's hand again, the fingers twitching as he plucks out stripped hydraulic lines and replaces them. Quiet fills the medcorner while the transfer completes, and Drift starts unpacking all of the data. In retrospect, it's a lot to take in.

The destruction of the Allspark. Megatron's death and return. The alliance with the humans. Sentinel's betrayal. The destruction of Cybertron. The loss of their family.

A small keen escapes the white mech.

"Jazz," he says as Ratchet looks up at him in concern.

Ratchet lowers his gaze. "Yes."

"He was a good mech."

There is no denying that point.

"I know."

Drift makes a strange noise, vocalizer clicking. "Sentinel Prime. His betrayal explains much about their reaction. If a known ally could turn traitor, how much easier would it be for a mech who was once Decepticon? But Cybertron...?"

"Is truly gone."

Every time he confirms it, Ratchet feels another piece of his spark shrivel away. Like he's dying sliver by sliver.

Drift offlines his optics, free hand tightening in a grip on his thigh.

"Earth will never be home," he manages.

"You haven't given it a chance yet."

"And yet, judging by the emotions in your field, you don't disagree."

Ratchet clamps his mouthplates shut. He can't dispute Drift's claims. Not when the truth is buzzing all around him.

He finishes Drift's hand and moves to his left pede. The ankle joint is not responding properly.

"What happened to your team? To the Solanus?"

This time, it's Drift's energy field that betrays his emotions. "...Turmoil."

Ratchet winces. No wonder Drift hadn't disputed Leadfoot's claims. He must believe he might as well have killed his team himself. Turmoil had come after the Decepticon traitor and the crew of the Solanus had been in his way.

"Perceptor?"

"The last time I saw him, he was alive. Took the archives and his research before Turmoil could."

"His research?"

"I don't know much about it. Something to do with our sparks." Drift's faceplates tensed with concentration. "He was always babbling about the Thirteen and the origin of the Allspark."

Drift's careful facade cracks with genuine grief. There's real affection there, which Ratchet is not surprised to find. Drift's team had been carefully selected, by Jazz actually, to consist of mechs who wouldn't hold his past against him and would also compliment his abilities. Jazz had always been the best of seeing through a bot, to the truth in their spark.

It appears that Jazz's plan had worked. Drift had made friends, trusted companions, of his team. And if rumors were to be believed, perhaps they had even more.

Ratchet takes a risk and offers consolation. "I'm sorry about Blurr."

Drift's helm dips. The grief that pulses from his field still fresh and spark-rending.

"It is war."

That answer is thin at best. It always has been in Ratchet's opinion. That it's war; that their friends and lovers and kin had died for a good cause.

A good cause Ratchet isn't sure he believes in anymore.

It's a pale comfort when faced with cold berths. The empty place in your spark where someone important used to be. The connection that drones flat and dead where a lover or caretaker once commed. It doesn't get easier to bear, the pain never fades, and with each passing vorn, each passing battle, the grief can only build on itself.

"You mean _was_."

"I meant what I said." Drift lifts his gaze. "I saw the data packet. The war isn't over for Prime. It won't ever be over for us."

Ratchet's spark skips a pulse. "Because the Decepticons are still a threat."

"Are they?" Drift's blue optics are pale, so pale they are nearly white. "Leaderless. Weak from hunger. Demoralized. Oh, yes. What fearsome opponents they must be."

Ratchet nearly stares at him. He thinks that he's found another ally. A kindred spark. Someone to see the truth as Ratchet sees it.

"The humans would never accept a truce," Ratchet offers, giving the arguments that he already knows Prime would claim.

"How convenient an excuse." Drift's optics spiral outward, as though his words are too rude. "Apologies, Ratchet. I've been alone in the universe too long. Too much time to think."

"We could all use a little perspective." The medic awkwardly pats Drift's leg, rising to his pedes. "And in your case, some recharge. I'll fix up the rest later." He checks the logs for confirmation. "Bay 37 is your new berth. Congratulations."

Drift stands, giving his fixed leg an experimental twitch.

"Welcome home," he replies and doesn't bother to hide the sarcasm.

Ratchet doesn't have the spark to try and prove him otherwise.

* * *

a/n: My Drift is based on an amalgamation of his personalities across the canon and probably a good bit of fanon as well. I must attribute a lot of his characterization to antepathy's wonderful, wonderful fics.


	6. Ratchet Part Six

**War Without End: Ratchet**

**Part Six**

* * *

Prime's visits to the medcorner are few and far in between. He seems to avoid any opportunity to be within range of Ratchet's scanners as though he has something to hide. And maybe he does. Ratchet hasn't had a chance to do a thorough check up on his leader, not since fixing and reattaching his arm after the battle of Chicago.

And he certainly hasn't had the opportunity to check Prime's spark integrity or the functioning of his processor. Any other mech and Ratchet would have already dragged them in, strapped them down to the berth, and forced them into good health. He doesn't have that option with Prime, and with Ironhide gone, there's no one to help Ratchet wrestle him into submission.

Prime enters the medcorner with evident reluctance, optics skipping from the stacks of disorganized crates, the line of cleaned surgical equipment, and the pathetic facilities that have been given to Ratchet for his use. Personally, Ratchet's seen slum clinics that are better equipped than his allotted corner.

"Ratchet," Prime greets. "How's our new arrival?"

He resists the urge to give his commanding officer an incredulous look. "Settling in. He's a quiet one, thank Primus."

"Mmm. That reserve may be part of the problem," Prime muses aloud, referring perhaps, to the fact that none of the Autobots have warmed up to Drift in the week since his arrival.

One wonders why.

Ratchet lowers the datapad he'd been skimming.

"Drift isn't a spy."

"You're certain?"

"Being an Autobot or Decepticon is a choice," Ratchet retorts, staring at Prime, who doesn't look well to be honest about it. The mech's in need of a good wash and wax, his gears are making noises indicating ill maintenance, and Prime is... twitchy. "Isn't that what we told Wheelie?"

Prime's helm turns toward Ratchet. His optics spiral out and in, like he's having trouble focusing.

"Deadlock was a fearsome opponent. A sparkless killer."

"Deadlock doesn't exist anymore."

Can he get away with a subtle scan? Would Prime notice?

"That remains to be seen." Prime waves a dismissing hand and focuses on Ratchet again, with an eerie intensity. "You've been troubled, my friend."

Ratchet's spark gives a lurch of discombobulation. From suspicion to concern, he's not sure what to do with this unbalanced Prime.

"My spark is mourning."

"Of course. We all mourn. There is much we have lost." Prime might as well be reading a newsreel for all the inflection he's putting into his words.

Maybe there's a rationale behind Ratchet's suspicions.

"You keep saying that the war is over. I don't know how to believe that."

"What do you mean?" Prime's energy field reaches out with a tentative brush of concern probably meant to be comforting, but it succeeds only in making Ratchet uneasy.

He takes a step back. "Cybertron is destroyed as is the Allspark. We have no home, no future..." Ratchet drops the datapad onto his desk with a clatter, spark giving another painful lurch. "What's the point?"

"Earth-"

His head whips toward Prime, cutting off the empty reassurance.

"-is not the same."

It doesn't feel like home. And it never will. Not to Ratchet, and now, he knows, not to Drift either.

But Prime... He wants to believe it. Ratchet can see it in Prime's optics. He's convincing himself with every fabric of his being, maybe even writing it into his very coding. Prime wants Earth to be home. Desperately, almost madly so. Blinding himself to the humans' disdain, to the fact Earth could never really support them in the long run, to the irreconcilable truth that their species is on the slippery slope to extinction.

Ratchet shutters his optics. "We have no future, but we slay any Decepticon who shows his face. What happened to us? What have we become?"

His vocals are soft, a true confession, but he fears they've fallen on offline audials.

Prime's faceplate molds into a passable display of disappointment.

"They would never lay down arms, Ratchet. War is all they know. War, battle, and death."

And Ratchet realizes with his own wave of discontent, all the Autobots know as well. They fight because they don't know any different. They kill because they've forgotten the line between defense and offense. They war because grudges are stronger than hope, and a battle for ideals has turned into a fight to the death between _us_ and _them._

Ratchet is no better than the rest. He's turned his back on his vows as a medic. He claims to be a pacifist, but he has a running tally in his processor of his kill count, the designations he knows and the nameless sparks ended by his own hands. His medic coding is slashed to glitched ribbons.

This war is never going to end. Not until every last Cybertronian is dead. There will be one mech standing, an Autobot or a Decepticon, and he won't have the spark left to mourn.

Is there any hope for change left?

"But what if they did, Prime?" Ratchet asks, desperate for Prime to see the same realizations that are starting to haunt him. "What if, by some miracle of Primus, a Decepticon puts down his blaster and asks for a truce?"

Prime shifts, uncomfortable.

"The humans-"

"Slag them!" Ratchet's hands slam onto his desk, rattling the contents, sending a tool crashing to the floor. "Why is it their choice? Why are the humans deciding our fate?"

"This is their planet."

Prime's vocals are calm, rational. So at odds with his own thinking, and he can't even see it.

His placidity only rankles Ratchet further.

"Then let us leave!" he demands, frustration coloring his tone. He whirls toward his Prime, hand slicing through the air. "There's nothing for us here, Prime. No reason to linger!"

"The Decepticons-"

"The war is over!" Ratchet near-shouts.

His coding screams at him for daring to cut off his Prime, to raise his voice. Where is his subservience?

Prime straightens to his full height, which towers well over Ratchet's own. His optics a blue flash of disapproval.

"_Ratchet," _he says, harmonics layering his words with rebuke. "Earth is our home now. We'll defend it as such."

No.

Ratchet draws back, as though physically wounded.

No. Earth is to be their grave. They left a dying Cybertron so they could all deactivate somewhere else.

And Ratchet will find himself dumped in the ocean with the rest of the dead Cybertronians one day. His frame rusting and corroded by salt water, his coding torn to ribbons. He'll offline a medic with energon staining his hands. He'll die a traitor to his spark's calling.

The realization strikes him then like a jolt to his logic circuit.

Ratchet can argue with Prime until his systems overheat, but he'll never be heard. He can debate the urgency for making peace with the Decepticons, point out all the reasons the humans will never accept them as kin, and it won't matter.

Ratchet could draw up a diagram, fill up a datapad, or put on a presentation. But it won't matter in the end. Optimus Prime has closed his audials to anything but his own fractured hope.

No. Not Prime. Not really. He's Optimus now. That dead, useless relic nestled snugly next to his spark chamber doesn't mean a fragged thing.

Prime is broken somehow. Like the rest of them. Changed since Jazz's death and irreparably shattered after Chicago. Destroying his brother and mentor must have been the last blow.

Earth is his last hope. He can't see anything else beyond it.

Ratchet's helm dips. He ventilates quietly, resigned.

"You are Prime," he says and ignores the strange crawling sensation in his frame. The way his processor tics, coding contradictory. "You see hope where I cannot."

Hands land on Ratchet's shoulders, his energy field washing over the medic in a dank, cloying flood.

"Time is the great healer, old friend."

Ratchet flinches. It sounds so trite. Mechanical. Like he doesn't even believe his own propaganda anymore.

Ratchet nods, stripped of words. This mech is a stranger to him, a mech he no longer knows.

Or maybe Ratchet's the one to blame. Maybe he's the one who has changed.

His commander leaves a moment later, his comforting duty done for the day. One of the soldiers calls for him, and after a gentle pat, he makes himself scarce. He walks away, helm held high, a mech lost to his own delusion.

Only when he's out of scanning range does Ratchet let the shudder free, rattling his frame from crest to pede. He feels the strangest urge to scrub himself down, take heavy bristles to his plating where Optimus had touched him.

What now, medic?

o0o0o

Days pass. Then weeks. A month goes by and Ratchet's existence settles into a monotonous pattern of death and disappointment.

The Autobots continue to hunt down the surviving Decepticons, a task that gets easier with each passing day as the lone 'Cons get weaker and weaker from hunger. Teams are sent out constantly, cleaning up the mess from Sentinel's failed attempt to enslave the human population.

Ratchet snorts inelegantly at the thought. The whole plot never made much sense to him. Taking control of Earth for their natural resources, sure. But enslaving the human race? What can a mere human do that a Cybertronian cannot?

Sentinel's plan had reeked of desperation. Unfortunately, Ratchet can relate.

The Autobots bring Ratchet back bodies of dead 'Cons to be stripped for useful parts. He'll probably be able to make Sideswipe one-hundred percent now. Bee doesn't want anything to do with a 'Con vocalizer. Dino's grateful for the new circuits for his arm.

Pretty soon, the humans will be making another drop for a special ocean burial.

Ratchet's learned his lesson from Thundercracker. When no one's looking, he pries at the paint on the Decepticons' main sigils. He collects ident chips, stores them in a little box in his subspace.

Hundreds of mechs had been hiding on the moon, in a special stasis, waiting for the call from Sentinel. They've only managed to hunt down and kill half of those by Ratchet's count.

It's good for their alliance with the humans, Ratchet supposes.

And when Optimus runs out of 'Cons to slaughter, what then? What will bear the force of his grief and anger? Megatron is gone, for certain this time. There's no shard of the Allspark to bring him back to roaring insanity. He's searching endlessly for a battle he's already won several times over.

Two more arrivals turn out to be Decepticons. Prime and Mearing agree to shoot them down without a single protest. Ratchet doesn't even learn about it until after the fact because he'd been out in the field, participating in more rebuilding efforts.

Thundercracker and Skywarp tell him their designations, and Ratchet files away their identities. One day, he tells himself, he'll have to stand before Primus with all of this energon on his hands.

The only bright spot is that Ratchet's Seekers are fully recovered. Both of them are healed enough that they could fly anywhere they wanted, if the threat of being shot out of the sky wasn't so prevalent. Besides, as Thundercracker has asked so many times, where would they go, just the two of them?

Not that their current existence is any better. They're surviving. It's all any of them can do right now. Ratchet included.

He spends time with Drift. Maybe it's because only Drift understands and it's so hard to get away to see the Seekers. Maybe it's because they have a genuine connection in their sanity. Either way, no else seems at all interested in joining them. They don't think much of it though, and the only time Drift blips on their radar is when they feel like reminding everyone that he's a Decepticon traitor.

At least the cleanup in Chicago has reached the point where an Autobot presence is no longer required. They've recovered every last bit of Cybertronian tech – to the best of their knowledge anyway – and there's been talk of shipping the Autobots to a more permanent base. Something better equipped, like the one Sentinel had destroyed.

Ratchet's not involved in the decision-making. Lennox is the one who tells him about the relocation. Prime's been otherwise occupied. Ratchet's the second-in-command, but it's an empty title. Sort of like his position as the Chief Medical Officer of the Autobots. Hard to be the chief when he's the only one left. Who the frag does he command?

"Ever get the feeling you're not wanted?"

Ratchet tilts his helm, glancing over at Drift. They really do spend a lot of time together now. Understandable, considering that the other Autobots treat him as though he carries cosmic rust and the humans look at him as if he's a 'Con in Autobot colors.

"And I'm not talking about me personally," Drift clarifies, almost absently, as he sorts through a crate of assorted supplies.

Frankly, if Drift continues to make sense out of the madness that's Ratchet's disorganized medcorner, then the mech can spend all the time around Ratchet that he wants. His leader has luckily recognized that the only mech willing to tolerate Drift is Ratchet; therefore, Drift spends the entirety of his duty shifts in the medcorner as well. Or sent out on errands for the resident medic. Just little things to keep him away from the other bots.

Ratchet turns his attention back to his datapad. Where he is currently comparing the supply requisitions he submitted against what he was actually given.

"It's hard to argue the need for an alliance without a clear and present threat."

Drift makes a disbelieving sound. "Sounds like an excuse to me."

Ratchet can't argue. He doesn't bother to try. He feels like he's defending something he doesn't believe himself anymore.

"They don't want us here," Drift continues, though he switches to Cybertronian and lowers his vocals, as if fearing to be overheard. A logical concern considering their current location. "They don't care what we gave up for them. And if we don't give them what they really want, our usefulness is done."

Ratchet crosses the scrap metal off his list. "Some of them are grateful."

Lennox, certainly. And Epps. Samuel. There are others, too. Members of NEST. The people of Chicago they managed to save and pull from the debris. Strangers all around the world who aren't quite so xenophobic and have more open minds to the Autobot presence. Ratchet should know; he's seen the fansites.

"The majority aren't. And one thing I've learned over the eons, the majority dictates everything." Drift pauses, reconsidering as he pulls out a handful of tangled bits of wire. "The majority or those with more credits."

Again, Ratchet can only concede Drift's point. The former 'Con is being unusually verbose today. Ratchet is more than willing to encourage this. Being that disconnected from his fellow Cybertronians... It's simply unhealthy. It's enough to drive the sanest mechs mad, and Ratchet's seen enough of Drift to know the mech isn't all there to begin with.

"They haven't learned at all. Not even after Chicago. We gave up everything. And what do we have to show for it?" Drift frowns, tossing the ball of twined wire over his shoulder toward his discard pile.

"Prime made the only choice he could."

"I'm not talking about the past. I'm talking about right now. What else do we have to give? When will it stop?" Drift braces himself on the crate, shoulders hunched. "How many more of us have to die?"

"Am I interrupting something?"

Both Ratchet and Drift whirl toward the medcorner doorway, finding Lennox standing in the aperture, looking up at them with a faint frown. He's carrying a sheaf of papers as well.

Ratchet smoothly intervenes, though Lennox couldn't have understood any of the conversation. He owes this man and considers him a true friend. If there are any humans he wants Drift to actually like, this would be the one.

"Just a discussion. Did you need something, Colonel?"

Besides, Lennox may know of Ratchet's betrayal, but Drift doesn't. Ratchet needs to keep it that way. He can't trust Drift completely. Not just yet.

Lennox doesn't look convinced, his eyes trekking to Drift and remaining. The white mech has returned to digging through his crate though.

"I do need a minute of your time, Ratchet. I need your opinion on a couple of... _strays_ I found."

_Oh_.

"Certainly." Ratchet turns to his assistant. "Drift, would you excuse us?"

Drift is the master of controlling his expressions, but Ratchet is the master of reading subtleties. Drift is curious, but he doesn't ask. He simply inclines his head and leaves, probably to find a quiet corner in which to sharpen his sword and meditate. He does that a lot, meditating that is. Though come to think of it, he sharpens his sword a lot, too.

At least, it's a quiet hobby. Unlike Sides' penchant for causing mayhem. Or Jazz being himself. Or Ironhide and his-

No. Too raw.

Ratchet forcefully disengages his thought patterns and shifts them toward Lennox. He steps further into the medcorner, lowering his voice.

"We got a problem." His fingers crinkle his papers loudly.

"I see." Ratchet drops into alt-mode, swinging open his driver's side door. "Let's talk."

Lennox accepts the invitation, and Ratchet slowly takes them out of the warehouse, sending Prime a quick databurst full of lies. Off to do some reconnaissance with Lennox, one last sweep of the city.

"Tell me," Ratchet says, once they are out of range of human ears and beyond sight of Autobot optics. A quick dampening field takes care of mech audials, and the only two bots on Earth truly capable of hacking Ratchet's systems both lie at the bottom of the Laurentian Abyss. Autobot and Decepticon together in death.

No. Best not to think of that either.

"Something weird's going on in Africa," Lennox starts without any preamble. He leans against the door, staring out the window. The lack of eye contact always seems to bother the humans.

"What do you mean?"

Lennox crumples the papers a bit more. "That's just it. I don't know. But it's something Cybertronian. Got enough energon detectors that can't decide what's what."

Ratchet's processor starts flagging possibilities. Bots coming in quietly, somehow slipping past the human's skynet?

"You got a file?"

Lennox pulls out his Blackberry. "Sending it now."

Ratchet waits patiently, scanning the area for a suitable place for them to stop and have their chat. His HUD chimes when the file arrives, and Ratchet unpacks the information, scanning it. Energon detectors are flagging incidences, but they come and go, fading in and out. False readings?

No. Not at all.

The detectors simply aren't calibrated for this particular _type_ of energon. Diluted in potency but packed with necessary nutrients, all the metals and materials a growing protoform might need to develop.

Fraggit all to the pit and into the Unmaker's embrace.

"Has Prime been told?"

Lennox shakes his head. "I'm not even supposed to know."

Ratchet curses internally, a shudder passing through his frame. The humans have found the hatchlings, and they don't even know it. They don't seem intent on informing the Autobots either. He can only imagine what they'll do once they realize what their devices are telling them.

"Is it Decepticons?"

"You could say that." Ratchet turns off of the main road and down a side street, one that will dump them at the edge of a local park. "They're hatchlings."

Lennox sits up straight, staring at the steering wheel. "Hatchlings... Babies? You mean robot babies?"

"Close enough." Ratchet mutters another vile invective. "That must've been where Megatron was hiding them. Fraggit."

"Wait a minute." Lennox holds up a hand. "How do you have robot babies without the Allspark. Thought you needed it?"

Ratchet pulls to a stop at the park and swings open his door, prompting Lennox to exit so that he can return to his root mode.

"They're sparkless. Drones with a higher capacity for intelligence and bare emotional protocols but no sense of morality or even true life as you'd understand it. Soulless, I suppose," Ratchet explains as he pulls up a piece of broken building for a chair, and Lennox parks himself on top of a picnic table. "The Allspark would've made them truly sapient."

Lennox is quiet, staring down at his clasped hands. "They're Decepticons."

"_No_. They can't make that decision for themselves." Ratchet ventilates noisily, lifting his gaze to the sky above. It's is a dull grey, threatening storms. "Slag, but I can't get to Africa."

Frustration makes his plating rattle. In this moment, he can understand the need for a flight mode. He envies his Seekers.

"What?"

Ratchet redirects his optics to Lennox. "What do you think Mearing will do once she figures out what they are?"

Human eyes widen, hands clenching into fists. Lennox has a daughter, a child. That changes most beings.

"She'll kill them."

"Or worse."

"Shit." Lennox sucks in a breath, and Ratchet can pick up the sound of his heartbeat increasing. "We have to warn Prime. She's not going to tell him either. I know she isn't."

Ratchet grits his denta. The thought of telling Optimus had never crossed his processor. Informing the Seekers, yes. Finding a way to Africa, yes. But telling his superior officer, his Prime? No.

"Ratchet?"

He stiffens.

"William, I am not certain telling Prime would matter."

Lennox stares. "They're babies. He wouldn't kill them."

"Hatchlings," Ratchet corrects. "Prime can't see anything beyond the Decepticon symbol anymore. More than that, he wouldn't act without Mearing's approval. He's made that quite clear to me already."

"But..."

"I can't accurately predict how Prime will choose anymore," Ratchet adds gently, his spark giving a flicker of disappointment. "And that very uncertainty makes me all the more confident that I can't tell him."

He no longer trusts Optimus to do what's right. Such a realization feels like acid on his spark. Once, Ratchet would have followed Prime to the pits and back because he _believed_. He believed that Prime had the right path. Prime and the Autobots both.

Now... now, Ratchet isn't sure what he believes.

Now, he has two Decepticon Seekers that he's protecting from the Autobots. He's watching his own kind get shot out of the skies by a species younger than his left aftplate. He's watching his Prime kowtow to the natives without a second thought to the survival or continuance of his own kind.

"He wouldn't kill them!" Lennox argues.

How pathetic is it that Lennox sounds far more certain of this than Ratchet?

He looks down at the small human, who has the kind of expression young ones of all species do when an adult is telling them that their favorite story is nothing more than just that. A story. That Primus is just a sparkling tale. That Santa Clause is a figment of a child's dream. That brave, strong, and honorable Optimus Prime is fallible and not as noble as they all believe.

That sometimes, Primes can break, too.

The Fallen did, after all. And he was once the best of them.

"Maybe he would; maybe he wouldn't," Ratchet concedes, all too gently, because it hurts to see the faith in Lennox when Ratchet knows he's lost his own. "But if it came down to a choice between the hatchlings and the human's favor, I don't know what Prime will do."

It hurts to admit, but it's the truth.

Lennox sits back heavily, the picture of defeat.

"This isn't right."

"William, nothing's been right in my world since the first mech died on my operating table and the first time I killed one of my kind to save my life," the medic replies with exasperation.

There's a chance now. A small one, mind. But a chance nonetheless. He can save these lives, if any of them have survived this long.

Lennox's hands flex over his knees. "What can we do?"

"Everything that we can." Ratchet raps his fingers over a thigh panel. "I'm going to contact Thundercracker and Skywarp. Together, we'll all come up with a plan."

He comms the Seekers using their encrypted channel, then sets up a relay so that Lennox can join in the conversation. Thundercracker is most likely to take this seriously, so Ratchet pings him first.

"Thundercracker."

A long moment passes where Ratchet gets no response. He frowns, pinging the Seeker again. And just for good measure, pings Skywarp as well. Had something happened?

"You rang?" Skywarp chirps, all too cheerily.

His trinemate responds with a much groggier, "This had better be important."

Ah, Thundercracker must have been in recharge. It explains the delay. Also, it would be logical if the Seekers recharged in shifts.

"It is," Ratchet answers with equal curtness. "Lennox has brought information that's simultaneously worrisome and encouraging."

"I'm listening," Thundercracker replies, sounding more alert now.

Skywarp clicks with curiosity. "Good and bad news, huh? Are we going to have to move again?"

"Perhaps."

Ratchet shifts his attention to Lennox, who's listening intently to the dialogue between the three. Ratchet had purposefully spoken in English.

"NEST technicians have been picking up strange readings in Africa. Energon readings," Lennox explains, hesitating for a moment before continuing. "Ratchet tells me that they are indicative of hatchlings."

A second of silence passes before Thundercracker and Skywarp try to both speak at once.

"You found them?"

"Are they alive?"

"What do you _mean_ the squishies found them?"

"Does Prime know?"

"He'll kill them!"

Ratchet winces, the two Seeker's voices nearly indistinguishable as they pepper him with questions.

"At this point," he says, a touch loudly, to get their attention, "we are certain Prime has no knowledge of them. Only the humans, which doesn't make them any less in danger. And there's no telling how long it will take before Prime learns of their existence."

"Ratchet," Thundercracker says, his voice unrelenting. "You may hold illusions about the honor of your Prime, but Skywarp and I do not. He'll kill them if only because they're Decepticon in design."

"I'm not unaware of this, Thundercracker." Ratchet glances at Lennox, gauging the human's feelings on the matter, but for once, Lennox's face is devoid of expression. "We contacted you in order to discuss our next move."

"You said the humans found them?" Skywarp inserts.

"They found _something,_" Lennox corrects. "But I guarantee that they're going to send someone to investigate, and I'm pretty sure Prime isn't going to know a thing about it. Prime might hesitate, but my boss won't. She's starting to trust the Autobots but unknown entities? Not a chance."

Skywarp mutters an invective into the transmission. "How long do you think we have?"

"A couple days. Maybe a week if she's trying to be sneaky, which I suspect she will."

Ratchet's fingers rap across his plating again. It's a nervous habit he thought he'd defeated quite a long time ago.

"Then we don't have much time. We have to get there, figure out if any of the sparklings survived, and do that _before_ the humans get a team together."

"We can't leave them there either," Thundercracker says musingly. "They are indefensible, and we won't have access to energon converters."

"No," Ratchet agrees, realization pouring through him and setting his spark aflame, his coding twitching. "No, we can't."

Lennox stares at him. "Even if you do find some alive, there's no way that we can hide this, Ratchet. Moving the Seekers was different. This..."

He shakes his head, words failing him.

Thundercracker easily picks up the slack. "Do you realize what it is you're suggesting? What act you are committing yourself to?"

"Nothing worse than I've already done. And it is something I should have done a long time ago."

He's betrayed his Prime in more ways than he can count. This would only be the final twist of the wrench.

"You won't be able to go back," Skywarp warns, and he actually sounds sad.

Ratchet huffs loudly. "I gave up that option from the moment I pulled your sorry frames out of the rubble. But all of this is moot if none of the hatchlings survived."

"Then that's our first point of business," Lennox insists. "We need to get you to Africa, Ratchet. Somehow."

Thundercracker's contemplative hum resonates through Ratchet's speakers. "The human is right. We cannot make firmer plans without knowing what we're dealing with."

"He can't do it alone," Skywarp adds with a surprising amount of logic. "Flight by Seeker isn't exactly subtle though."

"I'm certain I can construct a reason to scout in Africa," Ratchet grunts, processor already drawing up several plausible lies. "Prime will send me with a team."

"Perhaps I might volunteer for this mission then."

It takes several embarrassing seconds for Ratchet to realize that the offer doesn't come from Lennox, Skywarp, or Thundercracker. The voice is familiar to him but not an individual who should be privy to this conversation.

In a flash, Ratchet whirls. He scoops up Lennox with one hand, ignoring the man's shouted protest, and his free hand shifts to his blaster. Battle systems surge into alert, targeting the lone mech standing at the edge of the park, hands spread and palms up, indicating his intentions.

Drift.

Had the bot _followed _him?

"Drift," Ratchet growls and ignores the demanding pings both Seekers are sending at him. He's already cut off the relay so that only he can hear them. "What the frag are you doing here?"

"Following you," the white mech responds with his usual bland tone. "I haven't reported this conversation to Prime. Nor do I intend to."

Ratchet refuses to lower his weapons, though his spark surges within him. Drift could ruin _everything_, and Ratchet can't have that. The lives of the sparklings are on the line, along with William's career and his family. Ratchet's own life. The lives of the Seekers.

"Why wouldn't you?" Ratchet demands. He doesn't know that he can trust Drift, no matter how much their hopes for the future seem to coincide.

Drift remains calm, hands still showing a willingness for peace. "Because we want the same things."

Lennox squirms in Ratchet's free hand. Much like an unruly sparkling.

"Ratchet, put me down!" he hisses.

Ratchet ignores him. He can better protect Lennox if the man is in reach.

"And that would be?"

"An end to the war." Drift's energy field trickles outward, a bare brush of sensation against Ratchet's own. "Peace perhaps. A home."

Ratchet makes a fair approximation of a snort. "Earth is our home."

"You don't believe that any more than I do." Drift arches an orbital ridge, looking pointedly at the crumpled remains of Chicago around them.

Shifting his weight, Ratchet's aim doesn't waver. His cooling fans kick on with an audible whine, battle systems sending his systems into overdrive.

"It's that easy for you then. To betray the Autobots as you did the Decepticons. Your loyalties are fragile, aren't they?"

Drift flinches. Visibly. The remark hits too close to home. It might even be a bit out of line. But Ratchet's not taking it back. There's too much at stake.

Drift lifts his chin. He forces defiance onto his faceplate.

"The Autobots have betrayed themselves," he says.

An observation that Ratchet has noticed himself.

Drift still isn't attacking, hasn't made a threatening gesture. Silence sweeps between them. Lennox gives up on trying to get free. The Seekers ping Ratchet again.

Does he dare lower his weapon?

"I don't know that I can trust you," Ratchet retorts with blunt honesty.

The idea, however, of blasting Drift's spark then and there doesn't sit well with him either. There are many things Ratchet may be forced to do in the future, but spilling Drift's energon today is not one he wishes to add to his tally.

Drift's hands drop, hanging at his sides, not even defending himself.

"I know."

He doesn't offer proof. He doesn't beg his case. He puts his spark in Ratchet's hands.

Fraggit.

Ratchet ventilates loudly. He supposes trust really is a moot point. He only has two choices here. Offline Drift now and make up a story, or let the mech live and give Drift a chance to prove himself.

It's not in him to be a cold-sparked killer.

"Goddamnit, Ratchet! Put me the frag down!"

"I was offering you protection," the medic says sourly, though he finally consents to letting Lennox stand on his own two feet.

"I don't need it." Lennox steels himself and storms toward Drift, glaring up at the former Decepticon. "You really want to help?"

Drift's optics cycle down as he shifts his gaze to the small human. "I want to do what my spark is telling me is right."

"Could get you killed."

"Tomorrow is never promised."

"Heh. He'll do." Lennox grins and shifts his attention to Ratchet. "Put the blaster away, Ratch. I think he's telling the truth."

Ratchet hesitates a second but takes his battle systems offline. His blaster collapses back into his arm with a whirr of gears.

"And you consider yourself the best judge of character?"

"One of us has to be," Lennox snarks, and it's so familiar that Ratchet aches inside. It's exactly what Hide would've said. Probably what he would've done, too.

Not to mention Jazz.

"Besides," Lennox cuts through the realization, "we can't be in a Cybertronian standoff forever. We've got hatchlings to rescue."

o0o0o

Ratchet is not a fan of travel by human contraption. He remembers Cybertron fondly, the shuttles and trains – insentient and self-aware alike – that could transport a mech from one place to another. The human idea of a long distance transport, however, isn't so sturdy.

It's akin to rattling along thousands of miles in the air in a tin can, and Ratchet doesn't like it. Being strapped down in his alt-mode doesn't make the journey any easier to bear. He's shut down all but his primary systems just because everything else was sending him errors. There's an enduring sense of vertigo, and his tanks churn.

If he doesn't have to climb into another C-17 it'll be too soon.

He supposes he should be glad that NEST has been supplied the transport at all. There's no other method for a few groundbound Autobots to cross the ocean.

Drift, Ratchet notices, doesn't seem to have a problem with their accommodations. He is, of all things, recharging. Either that or meditating. He didn't even hesitate when it came time to strap him down.

Sideswipe, on the other hand, is as uncomfortable as Ratchet, but instead of turning inward, he's turned his discomfort outward. He's been joking with the technicians nonstop, to the point where their patience must be as frayed as Ratchet's. He rocks back and forth on his wheels in the limited confines of the netting until one of the soldiers snaps at him to stop.

Taking Sideswipe hadn't been part of the plan. But their leader had insisted, citing that Ratchet would need backup, _reliable_ backup since he didn't quite trust Drift just yet. Ratchet couldn't think of a logical argument that wouldn't raise suspicions. It was hard to keep from getting assigned Leadfoot or Roadbuster as well. The less mechs on this mission the better.

Besides, as Ratchet pointed out, this is merely an investigative exercise. Nothing to be concerned about. No Decepticons to fight. Just investigating some weird readings in Nambia, Africa. Maybe even fix a malfunctioning sensor or two. Sparkling play.

The C-17 banks hard, aiming to land. Ratchet stifles a groan, disliking the way it jars his stabilization gyros. He turns off his optical sensors and focuses on being very, very still. And quiet.

"Gonna be all right there, Ratch?" Sides asks, and were he in root mode, Ratchet doesn't doubt that the frontliner would have been poking him.

"Fine," he grits out as the C-17 starts to shudder around them. It doesn't seem to bother the humans any, but all Ratchet can imagine is the plane crumbling to bits around them.

Cybertronians are made of stern stuff, but an uncontrolled fall from such heights would result in a messy offlining, parts strewn across the savannah. It makes his tanks churn just thinking about it.

Sideswipe laughs. "Didn't think there was anything you were afraid of."

"Not afraid."

Being cautious is not the same as fear.

Sideswipe laughs again, and when the C-17 gives another telltale shudder, abruptly shuts up. Thankfully.

They land several minutes later with no small amount of relief from two-thirds of the Autobots. Ratchet waits with growing impatience for the humans to unstrap him from the netting, eager to stretch his limbs and emerge from his cramped alt-mode. Subspacing mass is never comfortable for long periods of time.

"We'll refuel and wait for your signal," the NEST soldier says at the bottom of the ramp as Ratchet is the last to descend. "Mearing has placed a ten hour time limit on this excursion."

The medic bites back a snarky response. "Whatever the director wants," he replies blandly and gestures for Drift and Sideswipe to follow him. "Apparently, we have a curfew. Let's get moving."

"What're we looking for?" Sideswipe asks, moving past Ratchet, taking point as his optics scan the horizon for any possible threat.

"Anything unusual that could explain the strange readings we've been getting."

Snorting, Sideswipe wheels ahead of them, blades sliding in and out of view. "Probably just some Decepticreep trying to be stealthy."

"Or a glitch in the systems," Drift offers.

"Let us hope it is the latter," Ratchet replies, pulling a scanner out of his subspace.

He has an idea of the location of the hatchlings, but it would be a challenge to make the discovery appear random. And he still hasn't decided what to do about Sideswipe.

"Let's go."

Neither mech argues with him.

It's early yet. They had timed their arrival to coincide with sunrise, which would leave hours of exploration without having to resort to night vision. Cybertronians could see decently in the dark but not the minute details.

Though reluctant to return to altmode, for the sake of expediency, they shift into their wheeled forms. Sideswipe continues to lead with Drift bringing up the rear, occasionally pinging Ratchet with narrow-banded queries.

"What to do," he asks, "about Sideswipe?"

As the humans say, Ratchet will cross that bridge when he comes to it. Maybe he won't need to do anything. Maybe all of the hatchlings will be offline.

Which is the worse outcome?

It's just past midday when the dull repetition of scanning across the African savannah is finally interrupted. Sideswipe bursts out of altmode, battle systems coming online, just as what appears to be a tiny scrapyard comes into view.

"Decepticons!" he hisses.

Ratchet recognizes the ping of a 'Con as well. His spark leaps in his chest. He can't see anything like a hatchling, but there's evidence of habitation and not human either. Several numbers of oil drums and large pieces of broken machinery are in view.

No, not machinery. Even as Sideswipe's blades slide into view, the two piles of seeming scrap shift into average-sized mechs. Mechs, Ratchet's scan tells him, without a spark. Left behind, perhaps, with the intention of guarding the hatchlings, but their programming leaves little room for anyone else.

"Sideswipe, don't!" Ratchet yells, starting forward.

Wheeled pedes are faster than his own, and Sideswipe is quick. The drones fire; they don't know anything more than to register Autobot and threat. Sideswipe easily dodges, cutting one down and leaping on the other, crushing their rusted frames with an echoing crumple.

But there are more Decepticon pings. Not drones this time but the hatchlings. Ratchet's scanners find them in the oil drums, what ones still live at any rate.

Sideswipe, running high on battle routines, turns his attention toward the pathetic camp and the stirring hatchlings. To what his sensors tell him are Decepticon in programming.

_No_.

Ratchet moves, and Sideswipe doesn't see him coming. He tackles the frontliner to the ground with a nauseating crunch of metal on metal, shock flaring from Sideswipe's energy field.

"Stand down!" Ratchet snarls, grappling with Sides, trying to pin his wrists down and keep those deadly blades away from his internals. He has the height and weight on Sideswipe, but the mech is crafty.

"They're Decepticons!" Sideswipe splutters, confusion making his struggles weak and ineffectual.

Ratchet slams an elbow against Sideswipe's chestplate. "They're hatchlings!" he hisses, optics flaring.

Sideswipe stills, optics cycling outward.

"You knew?"

Hurt washes through his field, battering at Ratchet's own igniting guilt.

His helm lowers, though he doesn't relax his hold.

"Yes."

He admits his betrayal, for he can think of no other word for it.

Sideswipe's plating clamps down, his frame trembling with restrained emotions. His energy field is equally reined in and unreadable.

"What the frag is going on?" he demands and surges upward, every ounce of strength into the motion.

It takes Ratchet by surprise. He tumbles to the side, slamming into the unforgiving ground with a painful crack of gears now out of alignment. Ratchet groans, pain washing through his sensor net.

Sideswipe snarls, optics blazing. He stalks toward Ratchet, who rolls to his pedes despite the pain.

"Why?" he demands, spitting that ache of disappointment.

Ratchet's uninjured arm forms his blaster, though he hesitates in lifting it toward Sideswipe. The mech who is more than comrade, who is family.

"You already know the reasons."

Sideswipe shifts forward. "Ratch-"

His optics widen, energy field flaring outward in surprise, a dull clank echoing through the dry savannah. Sideswipe drops, revealing Drift standing behind him, sword pommel aimed toward Sideswipe.

Ratchet had half-forgotten Drift had accompanied them.

"He's still alive," Drift says, nudging Sideswipe with a pede and flipping the smaller mech over. The edge of his blade rests on Sideswipe's chestplate, aimed over his spark chamber. "Or...?"

"No!" Ratchet's hand slashes through the air, horror striking at his core. "No more killing. I'm done with it."

Drift stares at him for a long moment, expression and sword unwavering. Then, he takes a step back and sheathes the weapon.

"The hatchlings?"

Casting a lingering glance at Sideswipe's unconscious frame, Ratchet hurries into the makeshift camp. There's nothing to be done for the two drones that Sideswipe dispatched, but there are a dozen or so oil drums scattered around the campsite. He takes a brief moment to pop his shoulder back into place, gritting his denta at the flare of pain the action produces. He'll have to tend to it properly later.

Ratchet activates his scanners, searching for signs of life. Only seventy-five percent of the drums ping back with active systems.

He peers into the first. The Decepticons had packed the hatchlings three to a drum, leaving them little room to grow in any sense of the word. Not, he supposes, that it matters since they hadn't supplied a proper nutrient bath to support development in the first place.

Such a waste. What had Megatron been thinking? Disposable warriors alone?

Ratchet reaches in, pulling out a frame that drapes over his hands. It is limp, too limp, systems cold and dead. Nubby winglets sprout from the hatchlings back. It would've been a flyer. Seeker, perhaps.

His spark aches. Ratchet gently lays the empty frame aside, reaching for the next. It too lacks anything resembling an active, online system. It is a sturdy, broad frame. A warrior mech perhaps. Or a builder, a constructicon.

The third is another Seeker. Or would've been. Once upon a time, outside of Megatron and Prime's war. Ratchet's helm dips. And there are eleven more drums. He dreads what he'll find.

"Ratchet?" Drift stands alongside him, expression neutral but energy field a light press of anxiety against Ratchet's own.

His glossa feels heavy, though he doesn't need it to vocalize. "Half of them are offline," Ratchet says, hazarding a guess. "The rest are so low on energon that they are close to it. Most are probably in desperate need of repair from nutrient-starved metal decay."

His hands tremble where they cradle the empty mech of the Seeker. It's grey without life and metal tinted with rust.

"I can't help them here."

Anger surges, threatening to override the dismay.

He wants to hit something, destroy someone. There's no one to direct his fury at, no one to hurt to ease the pain. Megatron is offline, and his own leader is miles away. They aren't the only mechs to blame. Ratchet knows he should turn his blaster on himself, too.

Primus. It's just so _senseless._

"Then do what you can," Drift says. He looks at the tiny frame in Ratchet's hands almost distantly, but his optics give him away. "We knew it would come to this."

Yes, they did. They had planned for this possibility.

Ratchet glances at Sideswipe's unconscious form, guilt warring with dismay and anger. Until his emotions are such a tangled mess he can't define them.

"As soon as I call the Seekers, the Autobots will be alerted."

"Are you asking me if I'm prepared?" Drift questions, hand lifting and touching the limp arm of the hatchling Seeker. He's careful, as though the hatchling were still alive and delicate, and it matters.

"Yes."

"Are you?"

Ratchet vents shakily.

"No." He crouches, gently lowering the hatchling next to his fallen nestmates. "But for the first time, I feel like I'm on the right path."

He moves to the next oil drum, reaching in and drawing out a live hatchling. The small, lightly armored frame twitches in his hold. A wordless sound of _hunger_ floats to Ratchet's audials. Are his instruments even small enough to spike such tiny lines? He may have to force the energon down the hatchling's intake.

"Then let's contact the Seekers. And you can tell me what to do until they get here."

Ratchet carefully drops to one knee, laying the hatchling over a thigh paneling as he scans the delicate frame. The little mech – or femme he supposes – will need repairs for certain, a heavy infusion of necessary metals, and energon as soon as possible.

"Got any medical training?"

"Some."

Well, Ratchet will just have to work that then.

"They won't have spark pulses," he says almost absently as he eases the hatchling to a better position. "Can you separate the living from the dead at least?"

"Yeah, I can do that."

"Then get started."

Drift inclines his helm sharply and turns on a pede, heading for the oil drum furthest from Ratchet's current position.

With the other mech occupied, Ratchet pulls out the emergency energon rations he had brought – not nearly enough – and tries to energize the hatchling in his hand.

-Thundercracker?-

There's not even a moment's pause before the Seeker answers.

-You have good news?-

-Depends on your definition.- Ratchet bites back a wave of bitterness. -I found the hatchlings. They're close to offlining. We'll need to transport them out of here.-

-Then lucky I already thought of a plan!- Skywarp inserts into the comm cheerily. -We can be there in about two Earth hours. Or less if TC puts some burn in his thrusters.-

-You? I'm afraid to ask,- Ratchet replies, paying strict attention to the hatchling in his hands.

The little mech is shaking but seems to be accepting the nourishment. And there are still more to assist.

-You should be,- Thundercracker replies with a glyph of disdain passing through the comm. -It's undignified. Starscream would've never stood for it.-

-The old Screamer would've understood the sacrifice,- Skywarp retorts petulantly.

There's a moment of awkward pause. Then, a gruff response spills into the comm.

-We'll be there as soon as possible. Thundercracker, out.-

The transmission cuts off abruptly, and Ratchet can only imagine the sharp discussion that will probably ensue between the two. Reminders of the mech their trinemate used to be haven't been received well. Skywarp lacks tact sometimes. Thundercracker isn't as forgiving as his composed nature implies.

There's nothing left to do now but wait. Wait and tend to the hatchlings who managed to survive all this time.

It's a slow and spark-rending process. Drift is quick, efficient, and compassionate as he separates the living hatchlings from those who hadn't. He lays out the empty frames in a long, spark-breaking line, while carrying the survivors to Ratchet personally.

By the time they have emptied the oil drums, Ratchet has twelve _hatchlings_ to tend. _Twelve. _Out of thirty-six. Four Seekers, three airframes of other design, and five potential grounders, warrior or civilian class. They aren't nearly enough to repopulate Cybertron, to begin restoring their species.

Are they worth it?

For a long, long moment, Ratchet asks himself this question. Even as he works to spike tiny energon lines, drawing from his own reserves so that the little ones could live.

Twelve hatchlings aren't going to revitalize his species. In the long run, they aren't going to make much of a dent in the slide toward extinction. It's like slapping a piece of tape over a ruptured fluid line. Energon's still going to leak out but a bit slower.

He asks himself again. Are they worth it?

Are they worth betraying the Autobots and his Prime? Are they worth completely siding with the Seekers? Dragging Drift into his treason? Making an enemy of his friends and the humans alike? Are they worth risking his very spark?

Looking down at the tiny, tiny grounder curled in his palm, Ratchet already knows the answer. Yes. They may only ever be drones because he doesn't have the Allspark, but they are alive. They are still Cybertronian.

Yes. They are worth it.

"You know," Drift says quietly, kneeling next to Ratchet and trying to coax a Seeker hatchling to swallow some diluted energon. "There's still a chance."

Ratchet lifts an orbital ridge. "For what?" he asks blankly.

Drift doesn't look at him, too distracted. "Perceptor's research. Methods to enspark frames without the Allspark. It's possible."

"You couldn't mention this _before_?" Ratchet demands.

The white mech lifts his shoulders and moves one hand up. "It wasn't relevant before."

Ratchet struggles to rein in his temper. It's really a battle. Not that it usually isn't.

"How?"

"I'm not a scientist. Perceptor was always mumbling about spark energy and how it replicates itself over time."

"Do you have any of his research?" Ratchet tries not to let himself hope. He's not a true scientist either, but he is a medic, and perhaps he can intuit hints from Perceptor's notes.

Drift's hand gently strokes the Seeker in his lap, trying to soothe the tiny hatchling into a restful recharge. It seems to be working.

"No, only the bits and pieces I picked up during his rambles," he admits. "I can forward you the vids?"

-Ratchet!-

The medic startles at the sudden comm that slices into his attention with all the force of a shout. He recognizes Prime's ident code and his systems snap into sharp awareness.

Should he reply? Should he pretend ignorance?

Ratchet glances at Sideswipe, still offline, still lying in a crumpled heap several yards away. The Seekers are inbound, should actually arrive any minute now.

Drift's looking at him. He must have seen Ratchet startle.

He could lie. He could answer the comm, tell them that everything is all right. That they are still searching, and no, he doesn't know why Sideswipe isn't answering his comms. He'll make sure to ask though.

Of course, they could also be contacting him because they've detected the presence of the Seekers. They've probably also figured out where the Decepticons are heading. Maybe the Autobots are already scrambling to intercept and want to give Ratchet fair warning.

The options ping back and forth in Ratchet's processor. He hovers on the fence, his choice staring him in the optics with a suspicious glint of Decepticon crimson.

He makes the choice, he believes, that's the first strike of finality. He ignores the comm. He _dismisses_ his Prime.

Another ping hits him not but a minute later. Ratchet ignores it as well. He watches as Drift flinches.

"You ignored him," he says.

He has no doubt been pinged since Ratchet hadn't responded. In all likelihood, Sideswipe was tried next. Not that Sides could answer.

Ratchet inclines his helm. "Yes."

Easier, he believes, to not speak than to try and lie to his Prime.

Drift carefully sets aside the recharging hatchling and rises to his feet, gaze turned toward the horizon.

"How long?"

"I suspect they are already on their way. Luckily, human transport is slower than Seekers when they're in a hurry."

"Speaking of..." Drift gestures to a pair of dark spots in the sky, growing larger at a fast clip. "Here they come."

Ratchet rises to his pedes, still cradling one of the hatchlings. His optics zoom in on the approaching Seekers. Is that a net? Did Skywarp somehow convince Thundercracker to sling a net around his alt-mode?

No wonder Thundercracker had claimed it undignified. Copters hauled freight, not Seekers. And Seekers certainly didn't fly around with nets strapped to their chassis.

"This is your brilliant plan?" Ratchet demands as Skywarp transforms mid-descent and lands with a firm thump on his pedes.

The darker Seeker chuckles as he reaches up to guide the net down as Thundercracker does a strange half-transformation that allows him to land without getting too tangled in the heavy coils of whatever substance they've braided together.

"I wanted to carry a cargo container between us," Skywarp replies with a smirk. "But it was not only too heavy but also too bulky. Besides, we didn't have an extra pair of hands to attach it."

Thundercracker gives his trinemate a sour look. "It also slowed us down considerably." His gaze shifts to Ratchet. "The Autobots are coming. We had to take out three of the human jets before they'd leave us alone."

"We didn't kill them," Skywarp adds hastily. "We gave the squishies time to eject."

"How thoughtful of you," Drift mutters, giving the Seekers a distinctly untrusting look as he edges closer to Ratchet. This would be the first time he's met them faceplate to faceplate.

"Only one net," Ratchet observes.

"If we're going to be fighting off squishies every hundred miles, we can only afford one net," Skywarp replies with an edge of hostile indignation.

Ratchet glances at the numerous hatchlings, Drift, and then himself. "It'll mean more than one trip."

"We know. Luckily, we're faster than the Autobots. It'll be close." For a second, Thundercracker looks worried until his gaze seems to zero in on the hatchling in Ratchet's hand. "Is that...?"

"Four Seekers," Ratchet informs him and carefully tips the tiny one into Thundercracker's eager fingers, the Seeker being extra-careful of his clawed digits. "Eight other survivors as well."

Skywarp's wings visibly droop. "Only twelve?"

"They were starving," Ratchet counters softly. "We're lucky to have saved so many."

A low growl resonates in Thundercracker's chassis. "Luck has nothing to do with it."

If only the Autobots could see the Seekers now, carefully cradling the hatchlings that Ratchet has managed to stabilize as they bristle with protective subroutines. As they risk everything for a dozen lives that don't matter much in the long scheme of things.

To be fair, not all Decepticons are like Thundercracker and Skywarp. There are many glitched slaggers that'd be better served with a merciful offlining. But they still deserve the chance, the opportunity, to show that they are more than propaganda has made them.

Drift shifts his weight. "The Autobots are coming," he reminds.

"Right." Skywarp nods perfunctorily. "Enough of this soft-sparked moment. Ratchet, into the net with you. And as many of the hatchlings as you can fit."

With his knowledge of Seeker carrying capacity, Ratchet has already made several calculations.

"No," he says. "Take Drift first. He's lighter."

Ratchet, on his own, outweighs the Seekers. He would slow them down.

Thundercracker gives him a long look. "No offense, 'Con traitor. But right now, the medic's worth more."

"None taken." Drift waves it away. "I'm inclined to agree with you."

"I'm also heavier. _And_ the one mech the Autobots are least likely to shoot on reflex."

Calculating travel time round trip, Ratchet estimates that it'll be close. Real close. The Seekers might not get back before the Autobots arrive.

A lighter burden makes for a faster trip. The Seekers can take Drift and the hatchlings the first round and be back faster than if they took Ratchet and _fewer_ of the hatchlings. Simple mathematics.

Skywarp has already started carrying recharging hatchlings toward the net.

"And if they take you prisoner, what then? None of us know enough to keep these hatchlings alive."

"I can live with being a prisoner," Ratchet replies, and his gaze cuts to Drift. "But I know very well that they won't give Drift that option." They'll see the former 'Con as returning to his roots.

Leadfoot, especially, will take great glee in extinguishing Drift's spark. Oh, his glorious leader might have a moment of hesitation. He might want to take a minute to ask Drift some questions. But his order will likely come moments too late. Leadfoot will shoot to offline, and their vaunted leader won't shed a proverbial tear afterward.

Thundercracker huffs loudly. "The Autobots-"

"This isn't up for debate!" Ratchet snaps, sharp enough to cut off Thundercracker's protest. "We don't have the time to argue, and none of you are in a position to force the issue. Take. Drift."

Quiet settles between them before Skywarp swears a string of vitriol that's a lovely mixture of several languages, foreign and domestic. It's almost refreshing.

"Get in the net, grounder!" he snarls, grabbing Drift by the arm and shoving him toward Thundercracker.

"This is a foolish plan," Drift protests, stumbling from the force of Skywarp's shove.

But he obeys. If anything, Drift is a soldier. He knows when to obey.

There's a look in Thundercracker's optics, like he's going to argue, but he doesn't. Instead, he helps Skywarp get Drift situated, then packs the hatchlings in and around the smaller mech. It's not the ideal situation, but desperate times.

"How's the weight?" Skywarp asks his trinemate.

"I can handle it," Thundercracker replies, which isn't precisely the answer any of them are looking for. "Though if it comes down to combat, I'm fragged."

Skywarp grins. "That's what I'm here for, sweetspark." He pats Thundercracker on a cheek spar, a touch of condescension in his tone.

"Shove it up your afterburner," the blue Seeker retorts, but it lacks heat.

Chuckling, Skywarp circles his trinemate, probably checking to make sure everything is nice and secure. Wouldn't want Drift and the hatchlings to tumble out after all.

"Everything set?" Ratchet demands, his chronometer ticking down the passing minutes, reminding him that the Autobots are only getting closer. The Seekers will probably pass them along the way.

"Yeah, we're good to go." Skywarp steps back, passing a critical optic over Thundercracker. "I still say this is a bad plan."

"Your opinion is noted." Ratchet turns his back on all of them. There's a secondary reason he opted to wait for the second round. "Get going. Time's wasting."

Thundercracker is the first to take to the skies, shifting fully into his jet mode once the netting draws taut. Skywarp flies around him in a few circuits, checking the integrity of the lashings, before the two of them rise higher into the air.

-We'll be back,- Thundercracker transmits. -Try not to get yourself slagged before then.-

-Duly noted,- Ratchet retorts dryly.

He glances at Sideswipe. The mech is still unconscious. Hopefully, he'll remain that way. Until then, Ratchet has his own duties to attend.

They'd managed to fit all of the hatchlings into the first load. There are, however, supplies here that could be useful. Mainly, parts.

It's a dirty, spark-rending job, but someone has to do it. They'll _need_ the parts for the survivors. Ratchet doesn't have the supplies or the equipment to fabricate his own.

There's a long line of empty hatchling frames waiting for him to attend to them. He doesn't want to. But practicality wins out. There are no supply lines that he can rely on. They will not be receiving help from the humans. The Seekers could, in theory, leave the planet, but they cannot safely return.

Ratchet grinds his denta, forcefully locks his emotions away, and bends to the grisly task. It must be done.

Time passes; he tries not to count the minutes ticking by.

His proximity sensors shriek with alarm. But the warning comes too late. Ratchet stirs from his concentration to the sensation of hot metal sliding against his neck components. Not a killing blow but incapacitating enough that he won't be able to defend against the next likely attack on his spark chamber.

"Why?"

The single word carries a heavy weight, crouching on Ratchet's shoulders with confusion and despair and betrayal.

Ratchet doesn't move.

"I used to be a medic once," he replies, slowly withdrawing his hands from one of the last empty frames so that they dangle loosely at his side. He consults his chronometer, surprised by how much time has passed.

The blade doesn't waver but Ratchet can sense the tremble in Sideswipe's armor nonetheless.

"You're a medic now," he insists, joints creaking as his weight shifts. "You're an _Autobot_. They were Decepticon. Why?"

"The lines aren't so simple anymore." Ratchet half-turns, keeping his actions measured and nonthreatening. "And I am still an Autobot."

A noise of disbelief resonates in Sideswipe's chassis. "Prime's coming. He thinks you were attacked. He's _worried_."

He can see the sneer curving Sideswipe's mouth.

"Worried about the medic who turned on his own allies." Only now does Sideswipe's blade waver, the edge of it tapping against Ratchet's neck cables with a quiet ring of metal on metal. "I don't know what to tell him."

Ratchet turns, ever so carefully, so that he can look Sideswipe in the optics. His spark is heavy.

"Tell him the truth."

"I don't know what the truth is!" Sideswipe shouts, and his energy field flares with frantic emotions.

Ratchet straightens, part of him worried that Sides might snap and attack. A larger part of him, however, has fought alongside the frontliner for centuries, and he would trust Sideswipe with his spark.

"Then you have to figure it out for yourself," Ratchet replies, keeping his vocals calm and quiet. "But I had to save them."

"They're Decepticons!" Sideswipe hisses.

"They were hatchlings," Ratchet corrects gently. He doesn't think that the lone twin had seen the little ones. "Drones without the Allspark but still living beings. And Prime would've killed them all."

If it were possible for a mech to go pale, then that's Sideswipe's reaction. He rears back, optics cycling outward, weapon lowering in his shock.

"You're wrong."

It's painful how much he sounds like Lennox in that moment, desperate to believe in the purity of the Prime. That he's been pointing himself in the right direction during the war.

The low drone of a powerful engine captures both of their attention. Ratchet looks up, catching sight of the human transport; Sideswipe doesn't have to. No doubt he's been in contact with them from the moment he onlined.

Now would be a good time for the Seekers to return, Ratchet muses. Barring that, he's prepared for whatever may come.

"I don't know what's going on," Sideswipe says, his vocals growing steadier. "But if you surrender, I'm sure Prime will understand. You know how he is. Soft-sparked and all that."

Oh, Sideswipe. If only Ratchet could believe that. But it's not their glorious leader making the decision anymore. It's the humans that stand behind him, pulling his strings.

Ratchet tries his private comm. -Any chance that you two are about to swoop in and retrieve me?-

There's no answer. Frag.

The opportunity to fight his way free has long since passed. He can already see their Prime and the Autobots he brought with him dropping from the C-17 without waiting for the plane to land.

Ratchet does what he can. He straightens, keeps his weapons locked and his battle systems offline. The Autobots are his friends, his family. He can't imagine harming them.

Ratchet doesn't respond to Sideswipe, and the frontliner adds nothing else. Perhaps it's better that way. He doesn't have words or excuses or explanations. He can't begin to put into mere words all of his reasons. Ratchet suspects that most of the Autobots won't understand anyway.

They are none of them the ideal they used to believe.

Somehow, just watching their Prime approach, flanked by Dino and the Wreckers, Ratchet feels his resolve strengthen. There's no logical reason behind his reaction, but his shoulders straighten, his chin tilts up. Defiance brightens his optics, but sadness resonates in his energy field.

"Ratchet," Prime says, intonation indicating he intends to say more, but he falters. He stares at the medic, flanked by his Autobots including Sideswipe.

There's an invisible line in the sand.

Ratchet stands on one side, surrounded by the detritus of an abandoned campsite, pieces of parted hatchlings arranged neatly on the ground behind him.

The Autobots are on the other side, silent and uneasy. The Wreckers don't speak for once, have no insults to offer. Dino's staring, too shocked to raise his weapons. Sideswipe still hovers between anger and dismay.

"Ratchet," Prime begins, trying again. "What have you done?"

He performs a systems check, attempting to calm the frantic whirl of his spark. The way his coding screams at him to cease defying his Prime.

"Something I should have done long before now, if I'd had the courage."

"Where is Drift?"

"With the hatchlings," Ratchet answers, and his hands clench and unclench at his sides. "And no, I am not going to tell you where. He, the hatchlings, and the Seekers are safe."

"Safe?" Prime's tone is measured, gentle, like one might speak to a frightened sparkling or a cornered turbo fox.

"From you." A tremble radiates up Ratchet's strut, and he fights to keep himself from betraying that weakness. "I'm tired, Prime. Tired of the war. The killing."

He watches Prime's fingers flex.

"The war is over."

"Is it?" Ratchet's helm tilts to the side, surprising himself with how calm he is. "When we're shooting our kind out of the sky still. When we hunt them down like sparkless beasts. When we can't see beyond the next kill? Oh, no. Prime, for you the war will never be over. No matter how many Decepticons you slay. Or how many Megatrons you kill."

Beside Prime, Leadfoot bristles. Dino gapes. The others stare at Ratchet as though he's lost his processor, like his spark has been replaced by Starscream's.

He has even managed to shock Optimus into silence. For once, the Prime is bereft of speeches, of sanctimonious preaching about honor and the ideals of the Autobots.

Ratchet vents quietly, spreading his hands, palms down. _I have given all that I can give_, the gesture says. Summarily, it also indicates his willingness to surrender.

He won't raise his weapons to his friends. There is another, more nagging, part of him that won't allow it either, but such is a different matter.

"Leadfoot. Sideswipe. Secure the prisoner," Prime says carefully, his optics never leaving Ratchet, something in their glow reflecting dismay.

Both Autobots hesitate, glancing at their leader, their Prime. The others can't seem to decide who deserves their attention more, their medic or their Prime.

A sensation of static electricity fills the hesitant silence. Ratchet startles, his plating twitching. The atmosphere feels at once, both sharp and tight.

Then, it snaps.

Skywarp bursts into space just behind Ratchet, or at least he assumes it to be the darker Seeker since Thundercracker can't teleport. Ratchet hadn't realized Skywarp was well enough to access his warp drive. He's even less certain that they have enough energon to compensate for its use.

"Well, what have I stumbled upon here?" Skywarp asks, his tone bright but his words sharp.

He looms over Ratchet from behind, draping his arms over the medic and peering over Ratchet's left. It's a lover's hold, something intimate and sure to invoke all the wrong ideas. Protesting would be a waste of time.

"Skywarp!" Dino hisses.

Weapons spring to life on his arms, pointed instantly at the irritating Seeker.

"Aww, you remember me." Skywarp leans heavier on Ratchet. "How sweet. I'd love to stay and chat, relive old times and all, but I'm only here for one thing."

Prime steps in front of Dino, blocking the mech from firing at Skywarp and possibly taking out Ratchet as well.

"Let Ratchet go."

"Sorry, Prime. That's not what he wants." One of Skywarp's arms drop from Ratchet's shoulders, curling instead around his waist almost possessively. "Is it, medic?"

He can feel the tension in Skywarp's plating, the hum of battle systems that are online and actively tracking potential threats. Skywarp is poised to leap into the sky at a moment's notice and take Ratchet with him. Thundercracker must be nearby or near enough.

"I'm sorry, Prime," Ratchet says and surprises himself with the level of sheer remorse that flickers in his energy field. "But this is goodbye."

Seekers have a flair for the dramatic. If Ratchet had wanted to say anything else, the opportunity is stolen from him.

Skywarp's hands suddenly wrap tightly around him, no longer in a parody of a lover's embrace, and he powers on his thrusters with a fast burn. Ratchet smells scorched grass before his tanks drop into his pedes, Skywarp pushing them up into the freedom of the skies, leaving the Autobots on the ground below, staring up at their departing frames.

-Show off,- Ratchet grumbles.

Skywarp's arms tighten around him. -Would you rather I let you go back? Rot in the Autobot's idea of a brig?- His energy field flares with irritation, and a surprising dose of concern. -Course, the humans might have a different punishment in mind.-

-No-

-Then stop whining.-

Below them, Africa is a wash of greens and browns. Skywarp can't keep up this speed for long, not carrying Ratchet. No doubt they'll meet up with Thundercracker somewhere.

Skywarp's fingers rap a nonsense rhythm against Ratchet's plating, where his hands rest against side panels.

-Do you regret it already?- The Seeker sounds oddly sober.

Ratchet doesn't answer immediately.

He thinks about the orders Prime had given him, grudgingly obeyed. He thinks about Lennox and Mearing and the contrasts between them.

He remembers saving the Seekers and how he used to be a medic. He remembers what that had meant once upon a vorn.

He remembers the hatchlings and his files call up Drift's words, the possibility of supplementing their doomed species.

-No,- Ratchet finally responds. -I don't regret anything.-

* * *

a/n: So. This is the end of what I wrote for the scifibigbang. It can stand on its own.

But it's not the end of the story. Just the end of Ratchet's POV. I left a lot of unanswered questions and lot of open ends that I intend to cover, utilizing other characters. I'm planning for Optimus Prime, Prowl, Sideswipe, Drift, and Thundercracker and anyone else that readers might want to hear from.

Feedback is very helpful to me. If there are any specific questions you have, feel free to ask. If I don't intend to answer them in a future installment, then I will gladly answer it for you.


	7. Prowl Part One

**Title: War Without End  
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant  
Characters: Prowl, Sunstreaker, Hound, Optimus Prime, Lennox, Others  
Rating: T  
Warnings: major and minor character death, violence, mentions of m/m and m/f relationships  
Desc: Empty words, empty promises. Optimus Prime is not the mech Prowl remembers at all.  
**

* * *

**Prowl - Part I  
**

* * *

"We're getting close."

Prowl doesn't bother to ask Sunstreaker how he can be so certain. He's given up understanding or making reason out of myth.

"Estimated distance?"

Sunstreaker glances at him. A visible shudder skips across his armor.

"Soon."

Prowl nods and returns his attention to the nav panel. They've swung around a gas giant with an enormous storm on the surface. Prime's message came from this system. The planet's coordinates are simple to follow, but Sunstreaker's confirmation is appreciated. It makes something in his processor settle as he's reassured they are on the right course.

"And Hound?"

Sunstreaker doesn't so much as turn and look over his shoulder. The disquiet in his field is tangible. It speaks volumes.

"Still hanging on."

Prowl presses his mouth together, and his plates pull tight against his back. Sunstreaker's assessment is an overstatement. Hound has been in deep stasis for more than half of their journey. He has only surfaced from his self-inflicted state to occasionally inquire about their location or apologize even more. Prowl has long ago given up the attempt to correct him.

If anyone is at fault, it is Prowl himself. It was his plan. His…

He shakes his helm and resolutely turns his attention back to the console. A blinking light indicates their growing proximity to Prime. And by proxy, Ratchet.

Medic. Salvation.

Hound needs Ratchet if he is to live.

Clawed fingers rap over the console. Sunstreaker shifts, either out of discomfort or anticipation.

"This flying slab of tin won't survive atmospheric entry," he says, and his tone is full of nameless things that threaten to reach inside Prowl and tear him asunder.

"We will have to do an orbital drop," the lieutenant replies. He's already anticipated this issue.

Sunstreaker pauses. "He won't survive an orbital drop."

He doesn't need to say who he means. Hound is always first in their thoughts. Nothing else is more important at this point. _Nothing_.

"We have no choice," Prowl responds, but his voice is tight. Edged with things he still can't admit. "He will offline if we leave him here. He must come with us."

Sunstreaker ex-vents. His optics shift back to the viewscreen but don't really seem to see it.

"And if he doesn't?" His claws curl into fists. "If it kills him?"

"It won't. He will live."

Prowl can't remember when he became such an optimist. Necessity, he supposes. If he tried to believe anything else, he would've succumbed to the drag of this endless war vorns and vorns ago.

Sunstreaker's makes a derisive sound. "I fragging despise orbital drops," he mutters, kicking out a pede in a sparkling-like sulk.

It's all bravado though. Pure theater to hide the vulnerable spots beneath. Prowl can see Sunstreaker's optics flicker toward the back compartment. Toward Hound.

"I'm sure Sideswipe will be willing enough to help you scrub off the scorch marks," he counters effortlessly.

Sunstreaker inclines his helm. "That slagger. He better give me a proper welcome."

If there is one topic certain to shift Sunstreaker's mood, it is to talk about his brother. Prowl will admit that he shamelessly takes advantage.

"He'll be happy that you're alive," he allows, but his tone has a hint of wickedness that he'd deny until the end of time.

Prowl returns his attention to the console of their tiny shuttle as it putters toward the planet where the Autobots are to make their new home. He tries not to hold too much hope but fails spectacularly as his thoughts turn to Hound and Ratchet who awaits them.

"That fact has never been in question." Sunstreaker flicks his fingers through the air before pulling a cloth from subspace and rubbing it over his arm. "I still expect some pampering after he abandoned me to wander the universe with you and Hound."

There had been others, as well. Too many others. But neither of them make mention. The pain is still too fresh.

Besides, an unwise mech would take offense at Sunstreaker's words.

Prowl is many things but not that.

A chuckle bubbles up in his vocalizer. "For what it's worth, I couldn't have asked for a better partner."

"You could have," Sunstreaker corrects, optics flashing with his own brand of amusement. "But you wouldn't have found one."

After so many vorns, it's no longer unusual how his friend's offhand arrogance feels so comforting and familiar. A mech, who Prowl once believed he could never predict much less understand, has now become as almost close to him as his brother.

Prowl shakes his helm. His hands land on the controls as the shuttle shudders, and proximity sensors alert them to the presence of an asteroid band in the solar system.

"Are you picking up anything on the comms?"

Sunstreaker swivels his chair. His taloned fingers plucking at the other console.

"Not a blip," he says, but then, his field spikes. "Wait. There's something."

"Autobot?"

Prowl twitches, and the shuttle jerks hard to the right, deftly skimming around a particularly large asteroid. Their transport may not have much in the way of amenities or space, but it more than makes up for that lack in speed and maneuverability. Especially since it has little shielding and zero defensive capabilities, which is the primary reason why they fly silent.

He would like nothing more than to try and contact Prime, but the message they received was so garbled that Prowl had trouble discerning details. He was able to pick out coordinates, determine an Autobot presence, and extrapolate to a victory. But regarding the Decepticon menace, he remains in the dark.

"Yes and no." Sunstreaker raps over the console before he whirls around in the seat. "There's heavy interference. Two broadcasts overlapping. One of them's Prime. The other…"

Prowl's entire body sets in a grim line as they emerged from the asteroid belt. Another planet appears on their scopes.

"Decepticons."

A soft whine fills the tiny cockpit. It is a familiar noise, that of battle systems charging. But it's one Prowl hadn't heard for several diun. Their last encounter with Decepticons ended in their current harried flight and Hound's unfortunate condition.

Prowl glances to his left, but the scanners offer up nothing. Not so much as an echo of a Decepticon signal.

"An overlap means the broadcast origins are of the same general coordinates."

Sunstreaker puts a hand to his face. "Meaning they're on the same planet with Prime." He offers a frustrated noise. "Think he found Megatron?"

A small flutter of optimism dares to flicker through Prowl's processor.

"It is possible," he concedes.

There's also a fair chance that Prime has found the Allspark as well. However, the incoherent communications leave too much to speculation. For all he knows, Prime is now the last of their kind. Or is surrounded by a hoard of sparklings. Or now sits at Prima's right hand with Jazz laughing as he watches from the sidelines.

Each seems about as likely as the next.

Sunstreaker straightens, hand rising to his chassis again. His fingers grasp where his spark is hidden beneath triple-reinforced armor.

"We're close. Really close." His optics flare with what Prowl would designate eagerness were Sunstreaker any other mech.

He can understand the sentiment. He isn't a twin, can't even behind to understand such a tie. But he does have a brother. One he hasn't seen in so long. Their connection has been dormant so long. Distance and time have quieted it to an aching whisper he can barely even hear. Danger has made it muter still. Has made both he and Jazz close the door between them. Lock and bar it tightly. And then cry out from opposite sides.

But that won't be for much longer.

Through the viewport, Prowl watches their shuttle whip by a small, red planet. Beyond that is another planet. It is blue and white primarily, and early readings indicate an atmosphere, a true atmosphere. Very organic, Prowl assumes, especially with a base of carbon and an abundance of dihydrogen monoxide. It matches the coordinates Prowl gleaned from the communication and that is all that matters to him.

"What are we going to do with the shuttle?" Sunstreaker asks, energy field giving an impatient pulse.

Prowl's doors contract as he considers. "There's a satellite," he finally points out. "It is as good a landing zone as any. We can make the orbital drop from there."

"I still say it's a bad idea," his friend mutters.

That doesn't require a response. Prowl adjusts their course so that their trajectory intersects with the orbiting satellite. As a precaution, he dials down several more systems, trying to run as many stealth protocols as possible.

"Uh, Prowl," Sunstreaker interrupts just as the satellite comes into view, both optically and through the sensors. "We've got a problem."

"Is it the thrusters again?"

"Remember that Decepticon broadcast?" Sunstreaker shoves away from the console and shoots to his pedes. "Well, it isn't coming from the planet."

Prowl's tank all but dives toward the floor. One hand remaining on the controls, he reaches for the console, already trying to plot a new course. Frag it all to the Pit and back. Of course the planet and its satellite would be in a synchronous orbit just close enough to completely baffle the communication equipment.

"How long?" Prowl demands as proximity sensors suddenly blare to life and bathe the tiny cockpit in garish colors.

Sunstreaker curses, fist slamming into a panel and denting the cheap metal. "No time. They must be scanning for approaching ships. We were in their sights before we even cleared the asteroids."

Prowl's jerks the shuttle off course entirely. He aims instead for the blue-white of the planet.

"We have no choice then," he bites out, optics cycling down. "We'll have to chance atmospheric entry."

"This isn't how I wanted to offline, Prowl," Sunstreaker informs him, bracing his arms against the narrow doorway connecting the cockpit to the rest of the shuttle.

"That's not going to happen." Prowl grits his denta as the sensors shriek and the shuttle trembles around them.

He cables himself to the shuttle, alerts and warnings cascading by his HUD, and the ship's computer streams data into his processor. One thruster is down for the count, a smoking ruin. Laserfire has scored several hits, but the Decepticons haven't breached the hull. _Yet_. It's only a matter of time; this craft is not built for battle of any kind. It's a miracle they've made it this far on something originally meant for short-range flights.

However, with the shuttle's real-time data pouring into his processor, Prowl finds it easier to take control. Sensors indicate two attackers, probably Seeker in origin, giving off Decepticon signals and making no attempts to hide it.

Another barrage rakes across the shuttle's portside, and Prowl winces. A few more hits like that, and it won't matter if they survive atmospheric entry or not. He redirects more energon to the thrusters, pushing them harder and faster. He streaks toward the planet with utter disregard for the fact he'll have to decelerate rather soon.

"Prowl!"

"I know what I'm doing." His tone is serene, a complete contradiction to their situation, but his doors are flat against his dorsal plating. "Haven't you learned to trust me by now?"

"It's not a matter of trust!" Sunstreaker hisses, and the sound of crumpling metal is barely heard over the alarms.

Prowl doesn't so much as turn around. "See to Hound." His focus drops away, processor immersing itself in controlling the shuttle. "Strap him down. Put him in deep stasis if you must."

"But-"

"That's an order, Sunstreaker."

There's a long moment where Sunstreaker all but vibrates with the urge to disobey, and Prowl knows that his mouth must be set in a obstinate display.

Then, Sunstreaker slams another fist into the wall.

"Fine."

He whirls on a pede, stalking through the door before it closes behind him.

Prowl ventilates and bends the entirety of his attention to piloting, to getting them planet-side without offlining all three of them in the process. He has lost too much – _too many_ – to this war, and if it takes the last of his functioning, Prowl will see that Sunstreaker is reunited with his brother. He refuses to fail.

More laserfire erupts, and scores a few minor hits. Either their attackers are terrible shots, or Prowl's more attuned to the shuttle's movements than he could have expected.

The planet looms in front of them, brilliant blue and white. The unsubtle blip of Prime's continued broadcast nags on the edge of Prowl's senses.

More warnings screech through the shuttle's systems. Another hit scores, this time taking out a stabilizer and Prowl tightens his control. His fingers fly over the panel as the shuttle rattles. The engines whine in protest, pushed beyond their limits.

Heat. It envelops the shuttle and Prowl can feel it, even through the craft's metal shell. His own temperature ticks upward, vents kicking on with a furious whirr to cool his frame.

Sunstreaker pings his personal comm, but Prowl ignores it. He reaches out, flicking the switch to lock out the cockpit. Sunstreaker and Hound will both be safer where they are.

One of the Decepticons draws back, as though reluctant to get any closer to the planet, but the other remains right on the shuttle's tail. Determined.

The heat is overwhelming. Several sheets of the shuttle's hull peel away, and one of the stabilizing fins is ripped off by the force of the atmospheric entry. Prowl's fingers grip tighter around the controls, and the entire craft shudders violently. He can see nothing through the viewport but a blur of colors and fire.

The shuttle gives a violent lurch, nearly heaving Prowl to the floor. It tilts dangerously, but then, they are through. The planet's foreground comes into view, a smear of organic colors through the viewport. The shuttle yaws dangerously, laserfire scoring through the atmosphere, and one of his attackers streaks through the air in front of it. Prowl catches a glimpse of grey, bulky plating – not a Seeker but shuttle-class – before the Decepticon is out of view.

The comm unit crackles, picking up a transmission. It pierces through the fog of Prowl's connection, igniting his battle systems and logic centers both. He peels back the layers, forces more of his conscious to the surface, hoping that the second of inattention won't spell the doom of himself and his crew.

The words are garbled. Not, Prowl realizes, due to technical issues but because he doesn't understand the language. It's not Cybertronian, that's for certain. Probably the native dialect.

"This is Autobot Prowl," he replies in a universal language, static lacing each word as he hopes he's not outing their presence to an enemy threat. "I have two Autobots on board, currently under fire from an unknown Decepticon. Please respond."

For a spark-stalling moment, nothing more comes from the communication but static-dark silence.

"Acknowledged," someone replies on the other end. This time it's in Cybertronian, his tone lacking any and all defining harmonics.

He isn't Cybertronian. Prowl is certain of this. There had been no inflection, no evidence of dialect or accent. But he has little time to spare for pondering right now. The shuttle is spewing smoke. Fire crackles along the edges, and Prowl is reasonably certain that they are losing plating by the sheet.

The planet's landscape looms in front of him, a wash of green and brown and endless blue sky. He has no idea where to aim himself, what would make for a safer crash, but Prowl tries to keep the ramshackle spacecraft in the air as long as possible. He might have succeeded too, if the pursuing Decepticon hadn't decided to throw himself directly on top of the shuttle.

The whole ship lurches and instantly dives, pushed by the additional mass. There's nothing Prowl can do. His thrusters are shot, stabilizers worse, and the ground is rushing up to meet them. He can only brace himself, shout for Sunstreaker and Hound to do the same, and pray.

His battle computer spits statistics at him, probabilities of survival. They are all of them grim. Prowl frowns, grips the console, and ventilates softly.

Another failure to add to his never-ending list. The latest in a long line that stretches so far back he can't even remember the beginning anymore.

He ventilates again as blue sky is swallowed by brown and green until that's all he can see. At least it's beautiful, Prowl thinks. Something glorious to see before death.

He thinks of life then. Just before everything eats away. He thinks of Sunstreaker. Of Hound.

Of his brother. So close and yet so far away. Close enough to touch now, where he hadn't been before. Close enough to grasp, to hold, if only he could.

Prowl reaches for him, but there isn't enough time. He offlines his optics mere astroseconds before everything goes dark.

o0o0o

"-owl. Prowl!"

His optics snap online, and Prowl's entire frame jerks. Only to go rigid as pain cascades through every system, HUD flashing alerts at him from all directions. A low groan escapes as he struggles to not so much as twitch. Somehow, he manages to cautiously take in his surroundings.

The world is fuzzy, edged with static, but there's a blue glow above him and an indistinct shape. His sensors register the weight of hands on his shoulders, but there's also a sense of pressure on his left leg, and he can't feel his right sensory panel. It's either dislocated or _gone, _neither of which are good considering their lack of access to a medic.

"Prowl!"

He reboots his optics. The bleary image sharpens into a familiar helm.

"S—Sunstreaker?"

"You fragging idiot," the warrior seethes, drawing back from Prowl's immediate sight though the hand remains on his left shoulder. "Did you pick up that self-sacrificing attitude from Prime, or is it just a charming bonus to that backward battle computer of yours?"

Prowl's right hand twitches. His systems ping back with a status update. Something's pierced his leg, a piece of the shuttle perhaps. His sensory panel is indeed dislocated. He's suffering from numerous punctured lines, and his interface cable has been torn from his frame, likely still attached to the shuttle's console.

He quickly dials down his receptors using a little medical override Ratchet gave him eons ago. Right now, he needs a clear processor, and the pain radiating from every micron of his frame isn't helping.

"The Decepticon?" Prowl asks, having to reboot his vocalizer twice just to clear the static. He feels unstable and reasons that he must have taken several hits to the helm. He wouldn't be surprised if he fried a circuit or two.

"Down," Sunstreaker replies, tones clipped and furious. His hands, however, are roaming over Prowl's frame, no doubt searching for more injuries. "Can you move?"

"Offline?"

Prowl tests his limbs, none of which are numb, but he knows he can't rest any of his weight on the one leg. Not without yanking the piece of shrapnel first, and Prowl doesn't need a medic to tell him that's probably not a good idea. It might cause more damage.

"Close enough," Sunstreaker bites out and shuffles around the sparking, debris-strewn interior of the shuttle. He maneuvers until he can get an arm under and around Prowl. "He's gone Empty."

Prowl winces as Sunstreaker lifts him to a semblance of standing. The pain is gone, but the discomfort remains.

Empty. _Energon mad_. Primus, no wonder the Decepticon wouldn't stop attacking. Energy-starvation has caused many a mech to do insane things. Most out of sheer desperation to stop the self-repair from cannibalizing their own frames and their processors from shorting out. The only worse affliction would be space madness.

"Got an ID, too," Sunstreaker says almost gruffly. "Blitzwing."

Prowl runs the designation through his internal database. Triple-changer, his memory banks tell him. Not terribly loyal to Megatron but an acknowledged threat. He is most often seen in the company of another triple-changer.

"Then the other was likely Astrotrain," Prowl says as Sunstreaker half-carries him out of the shuttle's ruins, a few systems flickering colorful lights in their wake.

The shuttle is a loss. Perhaps they may be able to glean useful spare parts, even find some supplies in the wreckage, but it's a miracle that they survived.

Prowl's helm dips.

"Hound?"

Sunstreaker loses control of his energy field for a moment. There is an aching tingle of worry mixed with something Prowl doesn't dare name.

"He's still in stasis, but he's functioning," the yellow warrior murmurs, but his grip is too tight. "That weld didn't hold."

Prowl stills completely.

Hound may be functioning for now, but unless, they can get him to a medic and soon, he won't make it. The slapdash repairs are the only thing keeping Hound's chassis together. Speak nothing of the desperate attempts to patch his spark chamber. He's been functioning on borrowed time for several vorns.

Prowl fears it is nearly run out.

Dull keening floats to Prowl's audials, barely perceptible above the noise of metal cooling and popping and coolant systems hissing. Before he can even begin to pinpoint the origin, Sunstreaker is half-dragging, half-guiding him out of the wreckage. They stumble into brilliant sunlight, warm and insistent upon Prowl's plating. He cycles his optics just to see.

Sunstreaker lowers him to the ground with a care that few ever see, but Prowl releases another hiss. There's a piece debris behind him, and Prowl leans against it almost involuntarily. He sweeps their surroundings, noting that their so-called landing was a crash after all, and they've left a swath of destruction in their wake. The shuttle has cut a deep furrow into the ground. It is, as Prowl suspected, organic rather than metal in nature.

He can see mountains in the distance, and his audials detect several unrecognizable sounds. His still-functioning comms pick a clatter of disjointed noise, so many different broadcasts on too many different avenues. If there's any kind of Autobot transmissions present, Prowl can't pick them out of the mélange. At least, not while his processor is yet churning.

The keening is louder. Prowl turns his helm, which takes more effort than it should, and sees the mech half-crumpled against the dirt. He's on his side, arms stasis-cuffed behind him, Decepticon insignias stark against pale plating. Energon streaks the ground beneath, running in rivulets over his frame. He's twitching.

Sunstreaker limps into view, plates visibly dented on one side. He's taken several hits from a blaster, but he's in remarkably good shape considering recent events. Prowl envies the quality of his battle armor.

"Now what?" his friend demands as he approaches, crouching to give Prowl a critical optic. He focuses on the piece of twisted metal poking out of the tactician's leg.

"Someone made contact," Prowl manages, expanding his sensors for a broader sweep and hoping to discern anything about their new environment. "I assume they are allies, but we must be prepared for other possibilities."

Sunstreaker sneers. "You really think Prime is here?" he asks, optics scanning the landscape. His mouth components curl with disgust.

"You would know better than I," Prowl murmurs, fighting not to lean into Sunstreaker's warmth too much.

"If you can't pick anything out of this, I know I can't." Sunstreaker grinds several gears together. "But yeah, Sides is here." He taps his chestplate pointedly. "Getting closer by the nanoklik, too."

Relief resonates through Prowl so strongly he surprises himself by the depth of it. Some of the tension eases out of his frame.

"Then you have your answer."

Sunstreaker stands then and scuffs a pede against the ground. "Doesn't mean I have to like it." He scowls at the organic bits on his armor and the dust cloud that arises. "I'm going to check on Hound."

He whirls and stalks away before Prowl can protest, not that he has the processing capacity to spare. He can't think more beyond the fact that the Autobots are coming, and in all likelihood, the closest Decepticon is the one currently babbling nonsense mere meters away.

Prowl adjusts his position with a grimace and assesses his condition. Self-repair is making short work of the minor tears in his lines. He's losing a minimal amount of energon thankfully, and no coolant lines are damaged. The shrapnel in his leg is the worst of the wounds, and once Sunstreaker returns, perhaps he can convince the warrior to relocate his sensory panel, however uncomfortable that might be.

If only Hound were so easy to fix.

But Prowl can't think of that now. _He won't._

Drawing a repair kit from his subspace, Prowl busy himself by tending to the few injuries he is capable of fixing for himself. Over the vorns, he's learned a passable amount of field repair, but much is still beyond his scope. Sunstreaker's knowledge is slightly better as a consequence of his time spent in the gladiator circuits.

But even between the pair of them, it still isn't enough to meet their true need.

While his servos are busy, Prowl purposefully turns his processor to other matters. He begins to sort through the untidy collection of transmissions that float across the airwaves. There's a miscellaneous assortment of languages present. Prowl may not be able to recognize them, but he can at least determine that some are of a different cant. There is also what might be music, if not based on a different tonal system. It is altogether puzzling. Chaotic. Loud.

Jazz must love it here.

-Still functioning,- Sunstreaker tight-beams to Prowl from wherever he is with Hound, just out of immediate sight but not sensor range.

But for how long?

Prowl's mouth components set in a thin line. -Keep him in stasis until we can make contact with Ratchet. It may be safer over all.-

He can't hear Sunstreaker huff out, but he knows the golden mech far too well to think he doesn't.

-I will.-

Sunstreaker cuts off without waiting for a dismissal, but the warrior's curtness no longer irritates. Instead, it's nearly comforting, familiar. A form of directness that is still refreshing no matter how much happens. Sunstreaker is nothing if not honest, brutally so.

His friend limps back into view then, blaster drawn and tapping against a thigh. There's a gleam to his optics, one that Prowl recognizes as a mech with every battle system engaged. A wise decision. Prowl doesn't intend to be caught off guard again.

"Didn't you say Astrotrain was this piece of scrap's partner?" Sunstreaker asks, waving his blaster in the direction of their prisoner's quivering frame.

A static-laced growl emerges from the Decepticon, but he can do little more than twitch under the influence of the cuffs. Truly though, it's probably a mercy. Empties aren't known for being docile.

Prowl merely tips his head. "Does it surprise you that a Decepticon would abandon his fellow?"

Sunstreaker gives Prowl a flat look in return. He stalks over to Blitzwing, prodding the downed triple-changer with a pede. The Decepticon makes a truly wretched sound.

"Primus, he's pathetic this way." Visibly recoiling, Sunstreaker steps back and gives Blitzwing a wide berth. "Want to bet they've been sitting on that satellite, just waiting for some hapless bot to come along?"

"I imagine Astrotrain is in little better state," the lieutenant comments "Still, he hadn't wanted to enter this planet's atmosphere, which makes him more cautious. Aware."

"Dangerous?" Sunstreaker infers, and that earns him a nod.

But Prowl's gaze turns even more thoughtful then, and he gives their prisoner a once over.

"Damage?"

"Mmm. Don't think so." Sunstreaker tilts his helm, blaster again tapping on his thigh. "Other than the energon madness, Blitzwing here's in pretty good shape. Probably hasn't seen any battle longer than we have." His optics shift away to something beyond Prowl's helm and the shuttle wreckage behind him. "I think Astrotrain was avoiding actually coming to this planet for a reason."

A noise cuts into their conversation.

Sunstreaker whirls, blaster whining as it builds a charge. Prowl goes rigid, sensors expanding outward in a rapid sweep. His are more finely-tuned, and he detects the vibrations of some sort of engine. He isn't picking up any kind of signal, however, Autobot or Decepticon.

"What is it?" Prowl demands, annoyed by his immobility.

He shoves his uninjured leg against the ground. He attempts to brace himself against the piece of debris and stand.

"Don't get up," Sunstreaker orders as his optics cycle down, shifting his optical scanners for long-distance viewing. "It's some kind of personal transport. Natives probably."

Prowl ignores him and tries to push himself upright. But his left leg won't respond at all. No doubt the motor relay has been either damaged or severed.

Sunstreaker mutters a curse under his breath, shifting his weapon to his other hand and stalking back towards Prowl. He grasps the tactician's uninjured arm and hauls Prowl up with little effort.

It makes Prowl's gyros spin.

Ugh. Perhaps standing is not in his better interest after all.

"Stubborn glitch," Sunstreaker says subvocally, but he all but forces Prowl to lean on him nonetheless.

Prowl scans the landscape as soon as his optics right themselves. Several transports come into view on a black strip that can only be a road before pulling off and making straight for them. Prowl's own battle systems click on with a quiet hum, though he's next to useless at the moment.

Prowl can't detect anything that might be a weapon, but it's frustratingly difficult to be certain at this point. He doesn't know if the locals are friendly, though if Prime's taken to living here, he must have come to some kind of agreement with the indigenous population.

The vehicles stop at a distance as though unwilling to come any closer, and tiny beings step out. They jabber to each other in their own language, pointing at Prowl and Sunstreaker and the shuttle wreckage. They don't approach.

Something chimes Prowl's comm unit, finally breaking through the tedious jumble of transmissions infesting this planet's atmosphere.

-Prowl, this is Optimus Prime. Lower your weapons. The humans won't harm you.-

Several questions answered all at once, Prowl feels the tension ease out of his joints. But he still feels a twinge of it in his chest as he reaches out. If Prime is close, where is Jazz?

He sends at a questioning ping, but there is so much interference around him that he can't even hear a reply.

"Put away your blaster, Sunstreaker," Prowl finally instructs after a click. "Apparently, they are on our side."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Sunstreaker replies curtly, optics locked on their spectators, blaster unwavering.

Prowl bites back a retort and shifts his attention back to Prime's comm. Now, isn't the time for this.

-It is a relief to hear from you, sir. We are in need of transport and medical assistance though I can't provide coordinates at this time.-

-There is no need. We have been tracking you since you first entered Earth's airspace. We'll be arriving within five minutes.-

That last term is unfamiliar to Prowl, but he ignores that for the moment. Prime has been amongst the natives for long enough that he has likely adapted some of their customs and terminology. Prowl is sure he'll come to understand it with time.

-Understood. We will wait for you. Prowl, out.-

The comm closes. Which subsequently opens Prowl up to all of the ambient noise again, and he hurriedly dials down his communication protocols. He establishes an alert for any pings coming from the channel now identified as Prime's, but any others are to become background babble that he doesn't wish to pay any heed. He only leaves two more open. One that he shares with Sunstreaker and Hound. The second, a frequency he and Jazz have long used only between themselves.

"Prime's on his way," Prowl says then, reaching out with his uninjured arm to place his fingers over Sunstreaker's wrist. It's an almost intimate gesture, but his companion merely lowers his weapon. "They are friendlies. Do not fire."

He can feel Sunstreaker's frame vibrate, tense and ready for combat. It's much harder for him to cycle down from battle readiness than it is for Prowl, and he has always been keenly aware of that. Aware that he is different than the other two of his team. An obvious weapon where they are more concealed and unassuming.

Sunstreaker says nothing. However, his grip on his blaster tightens by a fraction, and his energy field draws so tightly to his frame that energy crackles over his armor in blue-white snaps.

"Sunstreaker," Prowl repeats, keeping his vocals firm. But his touch is steady, gentle even.

Sunstreaker audibly grinds several gears before he peels his fingers off the blaster's grip, one by one. He slowly stashes the weapon away.

"I don't like this planet," he grits out in a low tone.

Prowl shakes his head. He doesn't much care for it yet either.

"We have only just arrived," Prowl states evenly enough.

"Your point?" Sunstreaker tilts his helm, looking at him. There is an eerie gleam in his optics that the warrior gets from time to time.

Before Prowl can respond, Sunstreaker's entire frame goes rigid and his head snaps up, optics focused on something beyond their immediate sight. He awkwardly shifts around in Sunstreaker's grip until he can see whatever has captivated his attention.

More transports now approach, but this time, Prowl's sensors ping back with Autobot identification codes. Prime, Sideswipe, and a third who Prowl knows only by reputation. Leadfoot is a Wrecker, and frankly, Prowl is surprised that any member of that team has survived this war. A fourth transport follows behind, but it doesn't respond to a curious ping. It must be of the insentient variety then, like the ones the other humans use.

Prowl watches them as they come closer, but something tugs at his spark even as he looks on. He can understand very clearly why Sideswipe his here. But why Leadfoot? Jazz is undoubtedly needed at their base while Prime is away, but where is Ratchet? Where is Ironhide?

Training? A mission? Injured even? Surely not… deactivated?

It doesn't even bear contemplating.

Prime rolls up to meet them then, shifting to his root mode the instant he comes to a halt. Sideswipe is right on his heels and Leadfoot as well. The fourth transport veers off, heading for the humans clustered around and now staring at all and sundry.

Prowl tries to stand up straight to the best of his ability. Only Sunstreaker's grip on his elbow truly keeps him upright.

"Prime," he greets. "Autobot Prowl reporting for duty." He offers a salute. "With me are my second, Sunstreaker, and our scout, Hound. He is in need of medical assistance." The lieutenant pauses for a moment. "Is Ratchet not with you?"

Sideswipe doesn't startle. He's too good for that, but Leadfoot visibly tenses.

"There is much we must discuss," Optimus replies instead, noticeably avoiding the query. "Right now, we must focus on getting you and your team back to our base."

Sunstreaker is all but fidgeting next to Prowl. He knows without even looking that he's eager to reunite with his brother. They haven't taken their optics off of one another for a single astrosecond.

"Go," Prowl says softly. "I'll make sure Hound is attended."

Sunstreaker finally glances away, even if only for a click. "You'll fall."

"I am capable of standing on one pede for a limited amount of time." Sunstreaker's concern is touching, but Prowl gives the warrior a light tap on the arm. "Go."

This time, he doesn't argue. Sunstreaker disengages himself from Prowl carefully and heads for his twin. Sideswipe is already hurrying to close the gap between them, and while Sunstreaker is not one for public displays of affection, it doesn't stop him from grabbing Sideswipe's helm with both hands and dragging his twin close. They press their foreheads together, optics offlining, energy fields swirling, struggling to sync after so long a separation.

Prowl knows he needs to look away, but somehow, he can't. Can't look anywhere but at the brothers and wonder where his own is. Wonder when he'll see Jazz again and if he will fall apart completely when he does.

"Prime, looks like they caught themselves some Decepticon scum," Leadfoot interrupts his thoughts.

Prowl rips his optics away to glance at the Wrecker. But that's only to watch as he advances toward Blitzwing, mouth components twisted with disgust.

Prowl wobbles, off balance. Then, Optimus is there, offering an arm like Sunstreaker had.

"He and another Decepticon attacked us before we entered this planet's atmosphere," Prowl informs the group at large. "They launched from its satellite. The second, Astrotrain, withdrew. Blitzwing did not. He is energon mad. Empty even."

"I see," Prime says, and his energy field reaches out, offering comfort. But it's edged with something else, something Prowl can't quite place. "I suspected that more Decepticons were hiding there, but we haven't the capability to leave the planet to be certain."

Blitzwing begins to cackle as Leadfoot circles him, wriggling in the confines of the stasis cuffs. He is too far gone to do more than snarl unintelligibly, and it's a truly pathetic sight indeed.

"You want me to take care of 'im?" Leadfoot asks suddenly.

Prowl feels himself stiffen at the tone, but Prime merely seems to be considering. He looks over at the Decepticon, battle mask concealing his expression. It is strange, but Prowl once though their leader to be so approachable, so readable even when he chose to protect his faceplate with the mask. But now... not nearly as much.

"Is your base equipped with a brig?" Prowl questions, sagging slightly as his system protocols send him flashing alerts. The pain reroutes cannot remain for much longer or his system will force stasis on him.

Leadfoot makes a disgusted noise. "No." His right arm rises as a cannon forms out of his hand. "It's not."

He fires, one quick and clear shot directly into Blitzwing's helm. Instantly, the mech stills.

Prowl's optics cycle wider. His entire frame goes rigid. Even as his processor shorts.

By the Allspark!

"You-"

Leadfoot fires again. The quick blast drowns out Prowl, and the shot sears through Blitzwing's chassis and destroys his spark chamber in one fell swoop.

Prowl's processor comes to a shrieking halt, and absolute disbelief crowds at his logic center. He waits for Optimus' rebuke, his outrage. For any reminder about the preciousness of all life, that they must be better than the Decepticons.

Prowl waits for words that never come.

"I will inform Mearing that we require another disposal," Prime comments, voice eerily calm before he turns his attention back to Prowl. "Can you transform? We can find you something to scan. Or I can locate a trailer for transport."

Prowl cycles a ventilation. His spark shivers as his processor brings up several responses before he can settle on the safest. And truly, it's the only thing he can actually think to say

"I am… incapable of transforming currently."

He stops himself from physically withdrawing from Prime. It's a near thing.

Optimus doesn't seem to notice.

What in Prima's name is going on?

"Fair enough." Prime shifts them both easily. Carelessly even.

The fourth vehicle from earlier returns. Two more of the natives – humans – step out, and one of them addresses Optimus in a language Prowl has yet to translate. The human gestures to Prowl before gesturing back at his leader.

-Prowl.-

The comm comes from the private line that only members of his team know. And he's quite certain the request hasn't come from Hound.

He looks to Sunstreaker, who is no longer pressed together with his twin, though they are still standing closely.

-What the frag's going on?-

Prowl feels his mouth pinch. -I honestly don't know. What does Sideswipe have to say?-

He sees Sunstreaker twitch.

-The fragger's not talking. Says he'll tell me when they get back to Chicago. Wherever or whatever the Pit that is.- Unease echoes in Sunstreaker's words.

"Prowl."

He shifts his focus from the private comm and back to his Prime, who has ended his conversation with the human.

"The trailer is here," Optimus informs him, still acting as if nothing at all is the matter.

Prowl can only incline his head.

What appears to be a large cargo container comes into view, hauled by a transport very similar to his Prime's alt-mode. It is large enough to hold Prowl and Hound comfortably but not Sunstreaker. Luckily, the warrior is in well enough shape to transform, no doubt having copied alt-mode schematics from his twin.

-Prowl.-

-Quiet, Sunstreaker. I can't focus.-

He's wobbling worse now, one leg numb and the dislocated sensory panel off-setting his balance. His processor is reeling from the clash of information, and Blitzwing is still there, offline and grey. None of it makes any sense.

Optimus helps him to the trailer, and Prowl awkwardly drags himself inside, where it's dark and lit by a few running lights. The metal enclosure is humming in tune to the transport's engine.

"Will you be all right inside?" Optimus asks as Sideswipe and Sunstreaker come into view, carrying Hound between them. The scout looks limp and lifeless.

Prowl has to look away.

"I am not alarmed by confined spaces," he replies and leans against the side of his enclosure. "The discomfort is only temporary after all. I'm sure Ratchet will fix me soon enough."

"We are several hours from base," Optimus offers, inclining his helm. "In the meantime, I can send you a data packet with the details of what's happened over the past five years. I know how you hate to be idle."

Finally, some answers. Prowl actually feels a flash of relief at that. Though once again, he doesn't fail to notice that Optimus has avoided anything mention of Ratchet. And for that matter, Ironhide.

Jazz's absence is more understandable. Someone must remain in command after all, but Prowl can't help the trickle of worry that aches at his spark as he opens the bond between them ever-so-carefully. Reaching. Searching.

His systems ping then as a rather large file awaits his acceptance. He takes the packet and sets his processor to unpacking it while he makes himself as comfortable as possible within the confines of the trailer. He detects the sound of the transport's engine rumbling to life, and with a lurch, they start to move.

There will be plenty of time, he surmises, for sightseeing later. Right now, it's better that he at least understand what it is he's looking at.

Shifting, Prowl reaches out a hand, laying it gently on Hound's helm. The scout doesn't stir beneath his touch, and the subtle hum of Hound's systems is barely present. But he's still online at least, and there's hope now, hope that Hound will make it. Fixing him should be no issue for Ratchet.

Hound will love this world, Prowl realizes. The scout has always had an affinity for life of an organic nature, and it seems this planet is teeming with nonsynthetic creations. Sapient, sentient, and otherwise.

A chime in his processor announces the completion of the file decompression. Prowl offlines his optics, focusing on the immense amount of data that Optimus has sent him. First and foremost is an introduction to the planet, called Earth, and its many residents. There are several language files with a suggestion that he integrate English into his principal communication processes.

There's a ping to his comm then. It's from Sunstreaker and seems urgent, but Prowl merely sends an automatic reply that he's busy.

Nearly eighty percent is details about Earth, the natives, and everything Prowl might need to know for living here. Several humans are of key importance. Including a Colonel William Lennox, whose image matches one of the faces Prowl recalls seeing earlier. There is also mention of a Samuel Witwicky – these humans possess strange designations. But his name is marked for further details, all linked to the summary of recent events regarding the war.

He comm beeps again. Still Sunstreaker. And now, Sideswipe as well.

But Prowl has already opened the file regarding the war on Earth. His spark begins to whirl with quiet anxiety. He almost doesn't want to know.

And there it is. In all it's terrible glory.

The battle of Mission City. Megatron and the Allspark.

Jazz…

There's a sound like a mech dying, and it takes Prowl a moment realize it comes from him. He feels Sunstreaker ping his comm desperately, but he cuts the connection like a knife to the spark and puts his head in his hands.

It's so stark. So frank and devoid of emotion. A mere recitation of data with no element of grief.

Jazz. Killed in action. A date on the human calendar.

Nothing else. Nothing at all.

Not how he died. Not where they're keeping his body or who now has his recycled parts.

And now, everything makes sense with a sick sort of clarity.

No wonder he hasn't sensed his brother on this planet. No wonder Jazz has made no attempts at contact. No wonder Optimus arrived without his trusted second by his side.

-He was brave,- Prime suddenly comms, and his tone isn't nearly as sorrowful as it should be. As if he hadn't just informed Prowl of his brother's death through an information packet.

Prowl can't even respond to that. Jazz is always brave. It means nothing to even say it. Like calling a sun bright. Or saying that fire burns. It's so obvious.

-He fought Megatron to buy us time,- Prime continues, clarifying what his damnable file hadn't bothered to explain. -He saved many lives that day.-

Prowl's entire frame trembles. He's alone in the half-dark save for Hound's unconscious form and Prime's voice. His good hand flexes against his side, and his processor is such a twisting mess that he can't even fathom anything beyond the fact that his brother is dead. He can hear Optimus speaking through the comm, but it means nothing. He only catches snippets.

-Performed his duty well.-

-Fought with courage.-

-Everything I expect of my mechs.-

Prowl's helm is still in his hands, and he grips the side of his face so strongly that he leaves dents. His ventilations are a ragged sound that echoes around him. Louder and louder until he hears little else. Not the transport as it travels onward without care. Not the subtle rumbles of his own body. And surely not Hound's weak systems.

Only that and Prime.

-You should be proud of him,- his leader says then, and his tone is so matter-of-fact. Flat even. Blunt without any softening of the deathblow.

There is no grief. No remorse. Nothing resembling sentiment.

-You should be proud,- he repeats, and he doesn't sound sorry at all.

Prowl stops listening then. He doesn't want to hear anything else.

* * *

a/n: Part one of four for Prowl. More to come.


	8. Prowl Part Two

**War Without End**

**Prowl - Part II**

* * *

The rest of the file, when Prowl can finally pull himself together again, is little better. It's cold and stark like the light that once came from the Towers. Hollow like the transport that still carries he and Hound. Empty of anything resembling empathy or true compassion.

It still manages to get the point across, and the emotionless tones actually keep Prowl in check as he scans through. Hoping against hope that there are no more surprising horrors held inside.

He's soon disappointed. But at least now, he understands why Witwicky's designation is marked as important. A human defeated Megatron, more or less. Killed him where so many others had failed. How... _unlikely_.

The Fallen is a twist to the war that Prowl didn't see coming. None of his calculations ever involved the possible return of a mech long reduced to myth and legend over the eons. Earth came perilously close to its own destruction, and Prime actually died?

Again, Samuel Witwicky proved himself more than an average human.

Then, Megatron returned using a shard of the Allspark. Another piece – and all that does remain – is mentioned in passing, but there is no location given. No hope that it is still even in Autobot hands.

The next part is even worse.

Sentinel Prime.

Prowl's spark – the part that hasn't been ripped to shreds and stomped on –drops into his tanks. Sloshes around. And threatens to come up through his intake.

Sentinel was supposed to be offlined ages ago, along with his entire crew. He went missing when they ejected the Allspark into the void of space. His disappearance is the chief reason Optimus became Prime in his stead. Why he's now even in charge of their faction.

Sentinel was dead. But only until he wasn't.

It doesn't make any sense. None of it does. Much less his plan for this planet and its use would the humans be as slaves? It stands to reason that raiding Earth's resources to rebuild Cybertron would be useful, but enslaving the indigent population?

Was Sentinel mad? Completely and utterly processor-fired? Had the war broken him so completely? Or was it a much deeper cause? Had he lived too long? Had he seen too much? Had he felt there was truly no other way?

Sentinel's betrayal strikes deep, but no more so than the list of casualties attached to this designation. Nearly a third of the Autobots fell to Sentinel's treachery. Including Ironhide. Stalwart and steadfast. Betrayed to his death.

So much of it. Too much death, Autobot and Decepticon alike. They've lost so much. Their world. Their brethren.

Most of Prowl's own team is now gone. They'd once been a dozen. Now, they are three. And he despairs. Not just for them or Ironhide or even Jazz. He despairs for everyone.

How many of them are left? Here? Out there?

The data lists seven surviving Autobots on Earth. There's an estimation of Decepticons in hiding, scattered around the globe.

Is that all? Are they all that's left?

Prowl closes the file. And tosses it into a corner of his processor. His spark is a heavy ache that eats him through, and he curls closer to Hound. Desperate for any contact he can get.

Jazz is gone. Hound is fading. Ironhide is dead. So many are dead. Lost.

They are so close to extinction. They have no planet. No way to revive their species or their culture. They are on the brink. Dying for all that they are long-lived. What is left? What do they have now?

Wait.

Prowl's optics snap open, and he reaches out a mental hand to pull the file from the depths. He scans it once and again. Skipping over the parts that set his spark on edge. But he still can't find it. Find him. No, he is not mistaken.

Ratchet isn't there. He isn't on the list of those on Earth. However, he's also not mentioned as falling in battle.

-Optimus,- Prowl prompts, and it's the first he's spoken to his leader in what has to be several of the human hours. -What of Ratchet? Where is he?-

There is a noticeable delay in Optimus' response, one Prowl could attribute to inattention. Nevertheless, he strongly suspects that the delay stems from reluctance.

-Ratchet is no longer with us.-

Prowl frowns. He is all but lying next to Hound's battered frame, and his gaze is fixed on the crumbling weld on his friend's chassis.

-He isn't listed amongst the fatalities.-

- Ratchet is not offline.- Again Optimus hesitates, as though carefully choosing each word. -He chose to leave. Of his own volition. His current whereabouts are unknown.-

Leave? Why on Cybertron would Ratchet leave? His loyalty to Prime and the Autobots is unquestioning, much like Ironhide. Ratchet has always been with Prime, as far back as Prowl has known the three of them.

Curious also, that Ratchet's current state is not listed or explained anywhere. Is Prime unwilling to admit Ratchet's actions to himself? Or is it something he wishes to conceal?

He shakes his helm, though Optimus can't see the action.

-I don't understand.-

-I share your confusion,- Prime replies, but his voice and tone are peculiar. –It's been three months since we have seen or heard of him. He may not even be planet-side anymore.-

-How is that even possible?-

And really, that is the question. For surely, Ratchet hasn't suddenly sprouted wings and flown off.

Prime takes his time in answering. So long that Prowl wonders if he's been forgotten.

-He is in the company of two Decepticon Seekers and an Autobot deserter,- Optimus finally admits, and he is hollow sounding even over the comm.

Confusion stutters Prowl's already fragile processor. This makes even less sense than Ratchet suddenly departing.

-He joined the Decepticons?-

-I'm… not certain.- A soft sound of disappointment trails through the line. -His departure was sudden and left us with many questions. I can't help wondering if he's not under the influence of some outside force.-

Prowl shifts, the discomfort of his injured frame suddenly more apparent. They are none of them medics. What will they do without Ratchet? How could this have happened?

Questions stack upon questions. There are no answers.

He looks at Hound, innocently in stasis. What remains of Prowl's spark contracts all over again. There is no help for Hound now. This is something beyond those who remain.

What is he to do now?

This is too much. It is all too much.

Jazz and Ratchet. Death. Abandonment.

Loss.

Once more, his head is in his hands. It's not a comfort, but it's all he has. All he can fathom as he bends over Hound and listens for the barely perceptible hum of his spark.

Prowl doesn't even notice when Optimus cuts the comm and the line goes dead.

o0o0o

Sideswipe, Prowl muses, would've made a passable medic once upon a time. Perhaps with proper training and guidance, he could've been even more. It's a pity that circumstances and the war have turned his function into something the complete opposite.

His hands are deft, well-articulated, and steady. His knowledge, at present, is passable. But relocating Prowl's sensory panel and replacing the motor relay in his leg do not require a surgeon's expertise. Were Prowl flexible enough, he could probably fix both issues himself.

"There," Sideswipe says with a final pat before he draws back. "Got any complaints, feel free to report them to management. Not that they give a frag."

Prowl finds himself having missed Sideswipe's special brand of humor, for all that it's off-color. He reroutes feeling to his limb, restoring the haptic connection, and twitches as all of his sensory lines bombard him. It is an annoying discomfort, however, and nothing has been damaged untoward. The rest his self-repair should be able to handle save for his severed data cable. Nothing can be done for it. The linkages are ruined and only a trained medic is capable of reconstructing them without frying the circuits.

"Thank you, Sideswipe," Prowl replies, flexing his knee joint before sliding off the medberth in this corner of a large warehouse. This is Ratchet's former work area, Prowl's been informed. "You've done well."

The warrior arches an orbital ridge. "Repeat that after your panel fully integrates, and then, I'll be impressed."

He is right, of course. For the moment, Prowl has disengaged the input from both of his sensory panels, and he dreads establishing that connection once again. Ratchet could've fine-tuned the process, set up some sort of reroute to buffer most of the input noise, but such is the way of things.

"Any discomfort I may endure is not your fault," Prowl assures and rests for a moment against the edge of the berth. He can't help but be appalled by what Prime has termed their base.

For having been stationed on Earth for five of their years, their living situation is dismal. No personal quarters, no privacy, no supplies. They might've just arrived for all that they've been given a sense of permanence. Granted, Sentinel did a fair job of destroying everything, but from what images Prowl's seen, their prior accommodations hadn't been much better.

Sideswipe shrugs. "If you say so. But we both know you wish Ratchet had fixed it."

Prowl's gaze swings toward the warrior, the first to actually mention their missing medic by his designation. No other Autobot had been willing to speak of Ratchet. The Wreckers avoid the topic. Optimus changes the subject. Prowl hasn't even seen Bumblebee yet. Dino is doing a fair job of pretending nothing is amiss, despite the tangible pall that hangs over everyone.

"How long has it been exactly?" Prowl questions. He wonders if Sideswipe's penchant for disobeying orders means he'll give the answers no one else seems eager to provide.

"Six orns, give or take." Sideswipe folds his arms, gaze shifting to the side, optics cycling down. "I dunno what happened, Prowl. He was acting bothered by something, but I never suspected… I mean, Hide was gone, so of course he'd be a little bothered."

Sideswipe ex-vents audibly. His energy field leaks from his control, teeming with conflicting emotions.

"The next thing I know, we find some Decepticons, Ratchet's attacking me, Drift's knocking me out, and I wake up with no clue what's going on. Ratchet doesn't even tell me, either. Just vanishes with that stupid Seeker. Then, we're all left staring at each other like a couple of glitches, the fragged squishy breathin' down our backstruts demanding answers, and Prime..."

His faceplate twists with something. Prowl doesn't know what to name it. But then, Sideswipe shakes his head again.

"Bah. It doesn't matter anyway."

Except where it does. There's something there, something about Prime, that Sideswipe isn't saying.

"Drift?" Prowl asks instead.

"Used to be Deadlock. I'm sure that name's stored up in your processor somewhere." Sideswipe's lipplates curl as he lifts his helm and meets Prowl's gaze. "He and Ratch were pretty cozy up until then, but I never guessed it would go like this. None of us did."

Prowl makes a wordless sound of commiseration. His fingers tap against the weak metal of the berth as he considers.

"Do you believe Ratchet's been compromised?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Sideswipe drops his hands to his sides, rocking back and forth on his wheeled pedes. "He left willingly. There's nothing they could've threatened him with. What do any of us have to lose anymore, after all?"

Could it really be so simple?

Prowl's frown deepens.

Sideswipe heads for the break in the crates that block up the medcorner and give it a semblance of privacy. "I don't know, Prowl. You're asking the wrong mech. I just do what I'm told, shoot where I'm aimed." He pauses but doesn't look at Prowl. "Thanks for keeping Sunny alive. Don't know what I'd have done without him."

Sideswipe leaves before Prowl can formulate a response; receiving gratitude from either twin is such a novelty that he's speechless. Still, his cortex is turning Sideswipe's words over and over, trying to find something in them to explain Ratchet's abrupt departure. What could have possessed Ratchet to defect?

No. Perhaps _defect_ is the wrong word. The Decepticons are defeated. They can no longer be considered a defined faction, not with their entire command element offline and the rest of their forces scattered around the universe. Skywarp and Thundercracker, while Decepticon in name, cannot be considered the entirety of them.

Again, Prowl is left wondering what could've changed. What had gone so wrong.

Venting, Prowl pushes himself off the berth and steps out of the medcorner, wary of the humans constantly in motion around the warehouse. Hound has been taken to another part where Prime hoped to solicit the aid of the humans. Though what such primitive creatures can do, he doesn't know.

Prowl limps across the open space, ignoring the stares the humans give. Sunstreaker has already complained multiple times that he feels like he's back in the gladiator pits, for all that the so-called squishies watch him. And though Prowl has always considered Sunstreaker a mech who enjoys attention, there is something unsettling about the manner in which the humans stare.

They seem unnaturally fascinated with Hound as well, and that unsettles Prowl even further. He hasn't missed the coveted looks several white-coated humans give his stasis-locked scout.

At the moment, Hound lies upon a makeshift berth, little more than a massive slab of metal positioned above the ground. It looks to be constructed of scrap metal and ingenuity with various stairs and ramparts hanging haphazardly around it. The better for the humans to observe, Prowl supposes. Surprisingly, Optimus is here, conversing with one of the humans on the rail near Hound's helm.

"You are certain?" Prime asks as Prowl approaches, speaking in English as a matter of course.

The human, whom Prowl does not recognize, nods his head. "The alloy is nothing we are capable of forging. There's nothing we can do."

"It's as I feared." Prime's vocals teem with disappointment. "Thank you anyway, Dr. Fujiyama."

The human shutters one optic briefly. "No problem, Prime. Seriously. Any chance you want to give me to get my hands on some more technology is a chance I'll take."

"Duly noted."

Prowl watches as the human doctor smiles up at Prime, offers a sketchy salute, and then turns to begin the long, arduous climb down from the railing. Prime, however, offers a palm to the human and helps him down to the floor in one fell swoop.

"The humans have reached the limits of what they are capable of providing," his leader says once the doctor is beyond audial range.

Prowl cycles his optics, surprised that Prime even sensed his nearness. He takes it as permission and steps closer, one hand landing on Hound's thigh plating. The subtle warmth of armor is a bare comfort.

"What can we do?" Prowl inquires softly, sensory panels flat against his back in distress. "Self-repair is barely keeping him functional. And-" His vocalizer glitches, emitting static.

Vorns of war and it's still difficult to admit his own insecurities aloud. To admit that he doesn't wish to lose Hound. That he's still so raw from losing Jazz. That it'd be more than agonizing to bear another failure. To lose another so close to his spark.

Prime hums a sympathetic note, but his gaze is focused solely on Hound.

"Perhaps it might be better to bring him out of stasis."

"That will put undue stress on his spark. Hasten the degradation of his systems," Prowl protests. His grip on Hound's leg grows tighter, as though he can hold his teammate together with willpower alone.

Prime ventilates a noisy hiss of air. "Hound must have the choice. Whether to spend his remaining days in stasis or alert and aware of his surroundings. He may wish to bid farewell."

"He could still pull through," Prowl states, and it's a sparkling's denial. The belief that everything can be made better so easily.

"And it is my sincerest wish that he does so."

Prowl stares at him.

This is Prime's best option? If the humans fail, wake up Hound and hope he can make it on his own? What kind of vague, empty hope is that? Especially since they all know the true answer to this riddle.

Prowl works his mouth. His processor goes through several iterations, and he hopes that he chooses the least accusing.

"Are you certain we can't contact Ratchet?" he questions, and his tone is as flat as he can make it. "Perhaps a widescale broadcast? An open comm line? The Decepticons aren't a large threat. Surely, we can risk it."

"The humans will not authorize it," Prime says as though this is the ultimate answer that cannot be argued with. "They consider Ratchet _persona non grata_."

The last phrase is unfamiliar, but Prowl can reason the meaning of it well enough.

His sensory panels press so tightly to his back that it actually hurts.

"What do the _humans _have to do with it?"

Finally, Prime turns. His energy field is contained and unreadable, his optics equally so.

"This is their planet, Prowl. They have every right to choose what to allow."

He sounds... confused. As though it should be obvious to Prowl. As though he should think it normal for them to concede every point to the humans.

For an astrosecond that feels like vorns, Prowl stares at his Prime. He's at a complete loss for words.

"They would deny us the opportunity to seek medical assistance for one of our own?" he somehow manages, voice so very faint and unlike him. "Purely out of principle?"

Out of spite, he really wants to say. Since that could truly be the only reason. He doesn't even need to know the humans to realize that.

Prime's optics shift hues into a darker cobalt. "Ratchet left of his own accord, openly siding with Decepticons. In their eyes, that makes him an enemy. And they have a policy against negotiating with known enemies."

Aghast, Prowl finds himself doing what he has never expected to do before: argue with his Prime. He doesn't mean debating the usefulness of a battle plan or offering advice either.

"That shouldn't be their choice," he points out, frustration growing. His free hand gestures to Hound, spark constricted within his chassis. "Hound is one of ours! We can't let him offline because the humans demand it!"

Prowl's fans kick on, much to his surprise, as heat rises in his frame. He forces a ventilation to calm himself.

"At the very least, we must attempt to contact Ratchet. We must _try_," Prowl stresses. "I can't simply throw my hands into the air and surrender this chance."

He cannot lose another of his team. Not with help so near. So within his grasp if he's willing to take it.

Prime doesn't waver. Something like sympathy crowds his expression, and his energy field flickers free. It pushes against Prowl, buffering him with resignation.

"I'm sorry, Prowl." His hands land on Prowl's shoulders, emitting soft pulses of warmth that is probably meant to be soothing, but it leaves the lieutenant cold from the inside out. "But there's nothing we can do."

o0o0o

The moon, as Prowl's datafiles indicate the uninspired name of Earth's satellite, is mostly hidden by clouds. The Autobots base is lit by numerous floodlights, but luckily, soldiers only patrol the perimeter. There seems little need for security within.

For a mech quite used to slipping through Decepticon blockades, battle lines, and bases, it's a simple matter to ease past each human. Prowl has learned over the vorns how to mask the sounds of his frame, how to reduce the shifting of metal to a low hum that merges with the overall thrum of his surroundings.

If Prime won't concede to finding a solution for Hound, Prowl will find Ratchet himself. There's no other choice. No other option.

A nagging sensation tugs at his processor. He is more or less disobeying his Prime. Optimus hadn't given him explicit orders _not_ to find Ratchet, but the implications are there. Still, it is a matter Prowl can't let stand.

He sticks to the shadows, activating the nanocells of his paint to better conceal himself. The moon's bare presence works with him. No human seems to notice.

Slipping out of the base isn't a problem. Finding Ratchet is. Prowl doesn't know if the medic is even on-planet anymore or where Ratchet may be hiding. He doesn't know how to contact the medic, save to broadcast some kind of distress signal, but desperate times call for the most desperate measures, even if to any other mech they may appear to be foolish.

It's almost a plan that would make Sideswipe proud, truth be told. Perhaps that indicates a certain element of success.

Prowl sneaks past the soldiers guarding the gate into Chicago, too busy as they are with their conversation and a small television set, and heads into the ruined city. Beyond human sight, he shifts into alt-mode and eases through the cluttered streets. His headlights offer a dim path, sweeping over splatters of energon and scorchmarks and wreckage strewn in all directions.

Where to begin? Should he head north or south? There's simply no way to guess where Ratchet could be hiding. He could choose to lose himself in one of the humans' larger cities, or easily be forgotten in the vast tracts of land that even humans consider inhospitable. But if he's truly aligned with the Seekers...

Prowl's engine gives a rev. He doesn't want to believe it. Ratchet isn't a Decepticon, no matter what the humans may believe. Ratchet is not a traitor.

Torn, Prowl returns to his root mode, sensory panels lifting and settling against his backplate. The lack of facts is making his battle computer have a fit. Without data, he's left without a means to calculate odds. He's flying blind, so to speak, and that is a state of affairs that Prowl doesn't like at all. But he has to do this. He must.

Jazz is dead. He can't let Hound die, too.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Prowl whirls at the sudden vocalization, none of his sensors picking up the fact he'd been followed or that another Cybertronian is present. His battle systems queue up, a scan snapping into the shadows of the crumpled buildings, but he doesn't need the responding ping to identify the speaker.

"You followed me," Prowl accuses. He draws himself up straight, panels unflexing in a threat display any Praxian would recognize.

Sideswipe steps out of an alley, and his silver armor catches a glimmer of moonlight. In the dim, the blue of his optics is the most visible.

"I had a feeling I'd need to."

The lieutenant stills. "What precisely does that mean?"

His tone is edged, sharp before he can stop himself. But his legendary control has been slipping for a long time. Before he came to this cursed place or even learned of his brother's demise.

"It means what you think it means." Sideswipe folds his arms over his chassis, radiating nonchalance as he leans against a ruined building; scorch marks are an indicator of what caused its destruction. "I know what you're trying to do, and I'm telling you it's not a good idea."

Prowl doesn't glare at him. It's a near thing.

"You presume too much."

Sideswipe flickers his optics. "I get that you think you know Sunny. But really, Prowl, we're not that different. You're not going to be able to find him."

"I'm going to make the attempt," Prowl retorts and then presses his mouth together.

Why is he even arguing with a soldier? He outranks Sideswipe!

He turns back around, striding a single step forward. But then, Sideswipe bursts from his casual stance, wheeled pedes a fast clip over asphalt. He skids to a stop directly in front of Prowl, halting him in his tracks. Though there's not a weapon drawn, there's a distinct element of warning in Sideswipe's actions.

"I want Hound to get fixed as much as you do," the silver mech says, arms down at his sides, unthreatening but somehow worrisome all the same. "But if you go out there alone, they'll call you a traitor, too. And even if our glorious leader wanted to, he wouldn't be able to convince the humans otherwise."

Prowl lifts his head. "Optimus has not forbade this."

"Semantics and you know it." Sideswipe lifts his hands, near-beseeching, as he rocks back and forth on his pedes. "You won't be able to find him, and if you leave, you'll be risking your spark for nothing. I can't let you do that."

"So you'd have me abandon Hound." The chill in his vocals is enough to drop the ambient temperature by a dozen degrees. "Turn my back on him as though we are no better than our enemies."

Something flashes in Sideswipe's field. It's without definition but aches as strongly as any regret or any fear.

"No. I want you to live." His optics are too bright in the dark. "For Sunny's sake if nothing else."

Frustration colors Prowl's every movement, streaking across his processors. His hands form fists, spark whirling a dissatisfied beat. This is anathema to him, to surrender before the battle is even done. How can he look Hound in the optics and tell him that there is no hope, that nothing can be done?

He looks at Sideswipe, calculating to the very core. And something vicious stirs at his spark. Something hurt and trembling lashes out.

"And if it were Jazz on that berth? If it were Sunstreaker?" Prowl demands, and his own vehemence surprises him. But he knows he's scored a hit when Sideswipe flinches. "Would you still stop me?"

A growl resonates in Sideswipe. "That's a low blow, and you know it, Prowl," he counters, wheels retracting as he stomps forward and closes the distance between them. "You think I don't know who kept him alive? Why he isn't half-crazed and mad at spark? And you're asking me that?"

Sideswipe's lipplates curl into a sneer worthy of any Decepticon. And he looks far too much like his brother then. Far too much like Sunstreaker when they'd lost yet another of their team.

"Frag you, Prowl," Sideswipe bites out. "You go out there, get yourself blown to bits by some trigger-happy human, and you'll lose the Autobots three mechs instead of one. Try calculating that in your glitched battle computer."

Each word is a punch to the faceplate, and Prowl is both impressed and stunned by yet another example of how much Sideswipe has changed. He truly isn't the mech Prowl remembers. He's never been quite so cold or calculating. Not until now.

Then again, not a single one of them remain unchanged.

Sideswipe's energy is a staticky discharge of anger and grief. "Hound isn't the only one who needs you," he finishes and pushes past Prowl, shoulder knocking against him with enough force that a lesser mech would be thrown off balance.

Prowl doesn't turn to watch Sideswipe go. He barely even registers the noise of the warrior's pedes across the crackled concrete but still hears the distinct noise of transformation and then a high-performance engine roaring into the night. Wind whips across Prowl's armor, pulling and pushing at his overheated plates.

He stares at the road in front of him, leading out of Chicago. Internal maps downloaded from the internet point him to nearby cities and states. He's pinpointed over two dozen possible locations where Ratchet could be hiding, battle computer tagging even more by the astrosecond.

There are so many. Too many. Prowl doesn't have nearly enough time. Not without some hint. Some suggestion to where their medic might be.

The return to his alt-mode is excruciating; every transformed joint and shifted seam feels like a betrayal to his very spark. Turning his aft toward the road out of Chicago hurts even worse, more than knowing that Sideswipe is right. Understanding that for once, Prowl acted on impulse, and it had proven to be the wrong decision. Realizing that he cannot help Hound is like acid on an open line, a blaster to the core.

Prowl heads back to their pathetic warehouse with a heavy spark and the stench of failure wafting from his ventilations. Yet another to add to the roster, the list of missing and deceased Autobots who have fallen while under his command. Hound may yet pull through, but Prowl knows the probabilities. He's run them through his cortex too many times. Calculating variable after variable, hoping to forestall the inevitable truth.

All of his faith rested on getting to Ratchet in time. Every nut and bolt and energon line of his being was focused on that one certainty.

Prowl's engine rumbles, and even it sounds defeated as he rolls up to the same gate he sneaked through earlier. The soldiers look surprised to see him, but lift the gate and return to their television and their loud conversation without a word.

What has happened? What has changed?

Prowl has gone over the bland, impassive facts given to him. He can find nothing in the details, nothing in the reports submitted, that can explain the current state of the Autobots.

He can find no answer to Prime's strange behavior.

Prowl understands that this planet isn't their own. He can concede to the necessity of working with the humans, giving and taking, making concessions as they are needed and being willing to compromise. He cannot, however, fathom his Prime's behavior or choices. That they should bow and scrape and surrender to every demand of the organics.

The main hangar comes into view. Prowl shifts back to root-mode, stepping through the massive doors and turning to the left, where Hound's been resting. The monitors attached to Hound's frame are a quiet hum in the otherwise stark silence. Many of the lights are a reassuring, steady gleam. But one in particular has a slow flicker, and Prowl doesn't need to be a medic to understand it's the most important one of all.

Someone has dragged a crate next to Hound's berth. It is the perfect height and mass to suit a Cybertronian form, and Prowl takes a seat. Hound's arm lays lifelessly within reach, and Prowl takes the scout's hand in his, alarmed by how cool his plating is to the touch. He feels more than halfway offline already, so still and silent. Hound has never been one for quiet.

He has always laughed and joked and encouraged, doing his best to pull the more withdrawn members of their cadre into the fold. He hates battle but will fight with denta and talons to protect his own. And he _lives_, lives where Prowl and Sunstreaker are slowly losing themselves to the madness of this never-ending war.

It's unfair that Hound should be the one on this berth, spark hanging on the precipice of existence. Of all of them, he'll enjoy Earth the most.

Thus the question remains. Would it be better to keep Hound in stasis or allow him to wake?

Prowl lowers his helm, offlining his optics as his hand curls around Hound's limp one. Truly, it's a riddle without an answer.

"I am sorry," Prowl murmurs to audials that cannot hear him. His fingers twitch around Hound's hand. "Forgive me."

o0o0o

In the end, the decision is Prime's as it has always been.

Prowl bows his helm, concedes to his superior officer, but remains present as they take Hound out of stasis and allow him to come online. Sunstreaker, too, is present. However, he hovers in the background, pacing a circuit that alarms the humans milling around and refusing any comfort Sideswipe offers.

Even in this, they have no privacy. Beyond the wall of Autobots are the humans and their machines and their shouting and their engines. All of it is a cacophony on the edge of Prowl's audials that continues to disrupt the solemnity of the moment. Have they no respect?

-This is fragged!- Sunstreaker snarls across the narrow band comm unique to their team alone. -Ratchet could fix him in a click. It's sparkling play to him.-

Prowl's lipplates thin. -Ratchet isn't an option, Sunstreaker. I'm sure Sideswipe has explained it to you.—

Apparently, Sideswipe had not seen fit to inform Sunstreaker of Prowl's former intentions. Interesting.

He can practically feel Sunstreaker's glare boring into his back. -He's not an option only because the squishies demand it. Why are they calling the shots? What the frag is Prime thinking?-

Prowl's insides are hot with agreement, and while it hurts him to do it, he still rises to defend his Prime.

-It isn't our place to question Optimus. I am sure he's doing what he thinks is best.-

Sunstreaker's frantic pacing abruptly ceases. -You really think this is the best? –

He is utterly incredulous.

Prowl understands completely. But he knows that he just has to look for another solution. He just has to buy them time. To convince Optimus otherwise. To find a clue to Ratchet's whereabouts. For Hound to heal on his own.

-We don't understand enough of the situation,- he says in his own defense. -The humans outnumber us, Sunstreaker. We cannot afford to anger them.-

The stare bores between Prowl's sensory panels like a laser-guided strike. -We shouldn't have to fear our allies.-

Prowl's panels lift, upright and rigid, a language that he knows Sunstreaker can recognize after so long together. It is a chastisement and a warning all rolled into one motion.

-We will discuss this later,- Prowl replies careful to keep his tone sharp and inflexible. -Hound deserves our support right now. He doesn't need our anger.-

He can feel Sunstreaker wilt a bit at the last part, and if he says anything further, Prowl doesn't hear it because he closes off the line and reroutes all queries to a queue. Sunstreaker's words ring with an element of truth, but Prowl doesn't have time to consider them right now because Prime has disconnected the many cords attached to Hound, manually booting the scout from an enforced stasis.

Prowl steps forward, standing at the base of the berth. He watches as optics flicker on, and the low hum of wakening systems fills this corner of the warehouse. Hound's left pede twitches and then his right arm. Immediately thereafter, Hound sends out an automatic, location ping, something they'd gotten into the habit of broadcasting over the vorns.

Prowl reflexively responds and notes that Sunstreaker does as well. A grating noise resonates in Hound's chassis, a sound that might have been a laugh were his systems in better shape.

"It seems like every time I boot up, something's different," Hound rasps, energy field extending outward in seeking tendrils. He brushes against Prowl with familiar warmth and continues further.

"Should be glad enough to boot up at all," Sunstreaker all but growls.

Surprise radiates from the other Autobots, those who don't know Sunstreaker well enough to hear the care behind his words. Hound, however, chuckles again. He struggles to sit up, but machines shrieking warnings at him encourage him to believe otherwise.

"Yeah, Sunny, love you, too."

Prowl lifts a hand, laying it gently on Hound's leg to let the scout know where he is. Though Hound's multi-layered scans must have already informed him.

"How are you feeling?" he asks very softly.

"More than ready to get out the berth." Hound's faceplates crinkle with a smile as he turns his helm, optics surveying the room and all those gathered. "Lots of familiar faces, I see. And Prime, too. We finally found you, sir."

Prime rests a hand on Hound's shoulder. "It's inspiriting to see that more of our kind has survived. You are on an organic planet that the natives call Earth."

"I figured it had to be something like that." Hound's orbital ridge furrows, an action Prowl has recognized as his processor slipping into scout-mode. "There is a lot of multi-tiered chatter on the airwaves." He flashes a cheerful grin. "So where's Ratchet? I'm ready to get back on my pedes."

Sunstreaker mutters a curse, field flaring strongly enough that it feels like a slap to the face. Prowl doesn't startle, having suspected that the volatile mech's emotions would escape his control. Dino and Prime though whirl toward Sunstreaker.

Not that the warrior offers anyone an explanation. He sneers at Prime, shakes his helm, and storms away from this corner of the warehouse. In passing, Prowl gets another taste of Sunstreaker's energy, a chaotic mass of fury and despair and helplessness, before he's gone.

Sideswipe sighs, runs a hand over his face, and rolls out after his brother. He falls so easily into his once-upon-a-time habit of trailing along in Sunstreaker's oft-destructive wake.

Hound winces and shares a commiserating glance with Prowl.

"Ratchet isn't here," Prime answers in the ensuing silence, tones carefully modulated, but not even he can take the sting out of the truth.

There's no help for Hound. They onlined him from stasis to tell him that he's going to die.

Prowl's free hand curls into a fist, and he carefully reins in his energy field. He doesn't wish for Hound to sense his own confusion and despair.

Not that it matters because Hound's smile starts to falter as realization dawns.

"Oh." His vocalizer crackles with static. "I see." His optics flick around the warehouse again, the familiar prickle of a scan washing over Prowl's sensors. "Ironhide was with you, too. And Jazz. They aren't here either."

His optics go to Prowl, and the lieutenant sees the apology there. One for Jazz. One Prowl doesn't deserve.

Prime's vocals remain infinitely gentle. "No, they aren't."

Hound's arm flops around, strutless, before landing on his chassis. "The war's over though. Right?" His palm is flat against his chestplates.

"Yes." Prime's fingers stroke over the armor on Hound's shoulder, but it's an intimacy that he hasn't earned. "Megatron is defeated, his forces thin and scattered. The war is won."

Hound releases a shaky gust of air. "That's good," he says, optics dimming several shades. "That's... a relief. Glad that happened before I... well, I'm just glad."

Prowl cannot take it anymore. His hand has curled into a trembling fist, the anger in his energy field barely restrained.

"Do not speak that way, Hound. You are not going to die here," he states with enough emotion to take Prime aback.

Optimus angles his frame toward Prowl, and his hand withdraws from Hound's shoulder. His ventilations though are heavy with exasperation.

"Prowl-"

He gives a jerk of his helm. "There's still a chance. There's _always _a chance."

Optimus stares at him for a long and agonizing moment, and something a lot like pity buzzes in his questing energy field. He drags a hand down his faceplate.

"We will discuss this later." But it's more dismissal than statement. "For now, please take advantage of the time you have."

Prowl's optics cycle outward, but Prime is already turning back toward Hound. His expression is oddly blank.

"Welcome to Earth, Hound," he says ever-so-pleasant, as though Hound will be able to get off the berth in the next few astroseconds and dance happily into the sunset. "You are an Autobot of which to be proud."

Optimus pats Hound on the shoulder and excuses himself from the shadowed corner. That leaves only Prowl and Dino behind.

The lieutenant forces his gaze away and struggles to regain his usual poise. It's a battle he's losing with every passing second. With every dipping number on the machines hooked up to Hound's spark. Time is slipping by at an illogical rate.

Dino's engine revs a strangled noise then. The red mech approaching the berth like one might approach a rabid Empty.

"Hound..."

Dim optics briefly brighten in recognition. "Not a youngling anymore, are you?" Hound asks in a voice thick with affection. The look he gives is soft and warm. "Mirage would be proud, you know."

Dino's plating clamps tightly to his frame at that. He has to look away for a click before glancing back.

"Have you seen him anywhere?" he questions, tone pitched low. "Do you know where he is?"

"I wish that I did." Hound pauses, face twisting with a grimace. A full-frame shudder rakes across his plating along with several curls of blue static. "And I'm sorry that I don't. You shouldn't worry about him though. He's a fighter and a survivor. The 'Cons never could catch him, and they never will."

Dino takes a step forward. Only to retreat a few paces back, as though reluctant to get too close.

"He's going to be fragged off," the red mech says, sharing the hint of an inside joke. "You're not supposed to die without him."

Hound only smiles. But there's a bitter pull to it.

"Sometimes, we don't have the luxury of choice. But it's all right. He can yell at me in the Allspark."

Prowl winces and turns abruptly away so that neither mech can see his expression. Hound doesn't know that the Allspark is gone, and he hopes that Dino is wise enough not to mention that fact. Let Hound cling to whatever hope remains.

"Yes." Dino crackles with restrained emotion, but he thankfully, does not correct Hound's assumption. "I'm sure he'll rant for joors."

Prowl offlines his optics and restores acknowledgment to the private line he shares with his team.

-Sunstreaker, return to the hangar.-

-No,- the yellow twin snarls, fury and despair bleeding into the line. -I won't stand there and watch him go grey.-

Prowl's mouth forms a severe line. -That was not a suggestion. That was an order. He is your teammate, and the least you can do is acknowledge it.-

It's a cruel thing that he makes Sunstreaker do this, and Prowl is well aware of that. They have both sat by too many mechs, watching them turn grey. Or watched in the midst of battle, as their companions were shot through the spark, or rent to pieces, or taken and never seen again. Or worse, left behind and lost.

-Sometimes, I think you enjoy reminding me how much of a sparkless drone you are,- Sunstreaker hisses and abruptly cuts off with a whine of feedback that aches in Prowl's audials.

His sensory panels droop. He onlines his optics, Hound and Dino's conversation returning to the forefront of his attention.

"Take care of yourself," Hound is in the midst of saying. "Raj's going to need you."

Dino makes an incoherent noise. "I will," the red mech says.

He lifts a hand, touching first his own forehelm before pressing the same two fingers to Hound. A gesture of long farewell once so common in the Towers but now a lost part of that culture.

Nothing more is said. Dino turns to leave, shooting Prowl the briefest of glances. Then, he too is gone, and Prowl is left staring in the faceplate of his most recent failure.

"It's okay, you know," Hound murmurs into the quiet, optics focused on the ceiling since Prowl's current position puts him out of view. "A part of me is ready by this point."

The lieutenant lurches into motion, crossing the distance in a few long strides, until he stands at Hound's berthside. One arm flops toward him, fingers smacking against Prowl's chassis, leaving him no choice but to take Hound's hand into his. The scout's energy field is remarkably calm and even for all the terrible reality of the situation.

Prowl tries to speak but static spills out of his vocalizer. He forces himself to reset it.

"No," he replies, startling himself with how fiercely the denial emerges. "It is not and will never be okay."

He cannot stop himself from pulsing a low-level scan, but the results spew pessimism and bad news. Hound's spark is losing viability at an alarming rate. The cracked weld isn't holding, and the longer Hound is online, powering even minor systems like his optics, the more stress he's putting on his spark.

"It is and will be," his friend retorts and has to pause, optics flickering him. His left leg twitches, and he draws in a slow ventilation. "It's not your fault either, and you know frag well I'd do it again if I had to."

Prowl works his jaw, searching for a diplomatic answer, unable to grasp his usual cold distance. It's impossible now. He's fought and lived with the members of his team for far too long to treat them with the detachment that has served him so well in the past. During the war. Before even. When the only one to even look at him as worthwhile was Jazz. Before they became brothers, never telling anyone save Prime that they'd ever been different.

But Optimus isn't the only one who knows anymore. Prowl has been with Sunstreaker and Hound for too long to not have them know the truth. To not have them know him as only Jazz has before.

Hound squeezes his fingers then. "Prowl."

He jerks his gaze back toward the scout, remarkably calm for the fact he knows he's about to die and nothing can help him. Nothing except for the one thing Prime is unwilling to do and that knowledge brings forth another spark of anger, one Prowl struggles to bury beneath the grief so that Hound can't sense it.

"I'm tired," Hound says softly, field stretched and seeking, wrapping around Prowl's like a warm breath of air. "Aren't you?"

"That's not the point. The war is over," Prowl replies, sensory panels rigid, resisting the comforting pull of Hound. "You have every right to enjoy this peace."

"Peace comes in many forms." Hound tries for a smile, but it slips around the edges. "Do me a favor though. Tell Sunstreaker it's not his fault, too."

Prowl works his intakes. A weight settles on his chassis that has nothing to do with physical pain.

"I am sure he would prefer to hear it from you. He's on his way now."

At least, Sunstreaker had better be. Prowl would hate to have to chase the frontliner down and drag him in here by his vents.

One of the machine's hooked up to Hound starts a slow and steady beep in minor tones that don't bode well. Hound's spark is failing him faster than any of Prowl's calculations could've anticipated. No doubt the crash landing on Earth had contributed to his rapid decline in health. Frag Blitzwing to the Pit! If he isn't there already.

"I'm here."

Prowl doesn't turn, his sensory panels twitching to acknowledge Sunstreaker's presence. Surprisingly enough, Sunstreaker even came alone. Sideswipe isn't with him.

"You left," Hound comments without a hint of accusation in his tone.

He's like that sometimes. Perfectly neutral, perfectly accepting. It is one of the reasons he was a good choice for a team that would include Sunstreaker.

It is and has always been impossible to hate Hound. Sunstreaker, over the millennia, is no exception to that pattern.

Sunstreaker stands there, just on the edge of Prowl's vision, both awkward and contrite.

"I'm sorry."

The need to make himself scarce becomes suddenly apparent to Prowl. He squeezes Hound's fingers one last time before releasing his hold.

"I will return," he promises and turns away, leaving the space at Hound's side open for Sunstreaker to take his place.

The warrior glares, but it lacks heat. He brushes past Prowl. Their energy fields come into contact for a brief, nauseating click. The churning emotions hidden beneath the surface are more than Prowl can even begin to translate. It's better for his sanity that he doesn't try. Sunstreaker is the most complicated mech he has ever met, and that includes knowing Jazz for so very long.

Prowl lingers for a moment, watching as Sunstreaker perches on the sturdy crate next to Hound. His hands are folded in his lap until a murmured word from Hound encourages Sunstreaker to reach out. They are speaking to each other, subvocally, and Prowl could strain to hear them, but he suspects it's none of his business.

Better that he leaves them alone for now.

He wishes he could grant them a measure of true privacy, but there's none to be found in this massive warehouse. The humans are still milling around, occasionally glancing curiously at the two Cybertronians locked in a personal discussion. Some openly stare, faces twisted with a grimace that Prowl recognizes as disgust, even with the difference in their species.

Prowl's plating clamps down tightly, an unconscious response to feeling threatened. The humans are small, frail, but Prowl does not think them harmless. He's seen images of what their technology can do to Cybertronian armor.

He steps out of the main hangar, optics cycling up to compensate for the fact the sun is setting and artificial lights are flickering on all around him. Sensors ping at him, warning him that he's not alone, but Prowl doesn't have to look to know who's been lying in wait.

"Did you help convince him?" Prowl questions, panels fluttering before he turns to acknowledge his visitor.

Sideswipe's arms are crossed over his chassis. His expression is carefully neutral.

"I left you my brother. You gave me back a stranger," he accuses.

Prowl merely gives him a look. "He's not that different."

Sideswipe glances away, optics narrowing. "He's different enough. We're warriors. We're good at that. It's another matter entirely to sit and watch someone die."

Prowl looks down and nearly startles at the sight of a human perched near Sideswipe's left pede. He remembers this one from the data packet: Colonel Lennox.

"Whether he says it or not, Sunstreaker does wish to be present," Prowl retorts, lifting his gaze back up. "Has he not told you?"

Sideswipe straightens, his mask cracking. "I know better than to ask. He will when he's ready."

Prowl glances at the open doorway. He can barely glimpse the gleaming metal of Sunstreaker's plating.

"He missed you. Do not ever believe otherwise."

A noise of disdain escapes from Sideswipe, and his gears grind in an unpleasant answer.

"I don't need you to tell me that."

He pushes off the side of the building, wheeled pedes rolling over concrete. Prowl watches him go. It's not as though he has the words to fix anything anymore.

"So," the human says, completely forgotten until that point. "You're the new guy."

He looks down and shifts his language to push English to the forefront.

"I have recently arrived, yes. I am Prowl. I presume you have met Sunstreaker?"

"Sides' brother?" Lennox's lower lip curls with a grin. "Yeah, we've met. I don't think I impressed him much."

"There is little that does."

Prowl must admit he _is_ impressed though. He towers over the small human by several degrees. Yet, Lennox does not look upon him with fear or unease. Clearly, he has grown used to spending time with Cybertronians.

"You are the leader of the military here?" Prowl poses, but he already knows the answer.

Lennox scratches his chin. "Someone else pulls my strings if that's what you're asking, but yeah, you could say that."

Prowl studies him for a click, but he isn't about to let this opportunity slip by.

"Did you spend a lot of time with Ratchet?"

The human's hand drops from his face to hang at his side. "I hang around with all the Autobots. It's part of my job."

An evasion. But a good one. Prowl considers that.

"Do you think he's been compromised?" he questions almost softly. Like he's afraid the other humans will overhear.

Lennox makes an unidentifiable noise. It's one that Prowl's recognition software can't catalog.

"It's not really my place to know, is it?" Lennox shoots back. "Mearing doesn't think it matters."

Mearing. The human-Autobot liaison as assigned by the United States government. Prowl has yet to meet her, but he is certain that such a thing will happen soon. Optimus is sure to want to start assigning him duties. They are so few after all.

"What do you think?"

One booted foot taps against the ground. "I'm not paid to think, Prowl. I just follow orders."

He does not miss, however, the note of bitterness in Lennox's tone. It lets it slide though. Especially when Lennox speaks again.

"Sideswipe tells me that Hound's not looking so good."

The sharp stab of grief and despair that attacks Prowl is unprecedented. He can't even begin to battle it down.

"We came here with all of our hope hanging on Ratchet being with Prime," Prowl admits, and it's agony to even say it to himself. "Without Ratchet, there's nothing any of us can do."

"I'm sorry," Lennox says, and there's true sincerity in his voice, not just words given to fill the silence. "I wish that I could help."

"I am quite certain that there's nothing you can do," Prowl retorts before he can stop himself.

"Yeah." Lennox pushes himself off the wall. "I'm only human after all. Pretty damn useless in the end."

Prowl could argue otherwise. The case of one Samuel Witwicky is in his databanks after all, but the human is already taking his leave, hands shoved into his pockets. Lennox isn't quite what Prowl would have expected from these organics. He is a human who bears watching.

No one else approaches Prowl after Lennox departs, and he has no desire to return to the hangar at the moment, wanting to give Hound and Sunstreaker what privacy he can spare. As Prime has yet to give him any duties, Prowl has nothing to occupy his processor.

What then to do?

Solitude is in short supply around this pathetic example of a base. Nevertheless, Prowl seeks it out in the ruins of Chicago. There's something oddly ironic about discovering peace in the middle of destruction.

A sign, scorched by laserfire, is still legible and informs Prowl that he's reached some sort of park. Vegetation survived the Decepticon attack for the most part. It's something Hound would have loved. _Will love_.

Appropriate, Prowl thinks as he lowers himself to a large piece of building that somehow landed itself in the middle of the park. It makes for an adequate seat to keep himself from the soil. He takes several image captures if only to share them with Hound later, for however long the scout's spark manages to spin. Prowl's scan before he left hadn't been optimistic.

This world is painfully different. While Prowl hasn't seen much beyond their landing zone and the arrival in Chicago, the world wide web is full of pictures and videos and documentaries. Earth is the epitome of organic, and Prowl misses the elegance of Cybertron so very much.

He doesn't like how the soil shifts beneath his pedes. He doesn't like the lingering odor of decay and rebirth. Nor how quickly time seems to pass here. And he especially doesn't like how nothing here _feels_ the same way that Cybertron does. It's a sensation he cannot quite put into words.

Cybertron, the planet itself, always hummed with life. As though the legends of their planet being the body of Primus have some element of truth. Earth, while life survives on the surface, feels dead to the core.

It shifts and surges, entirely unstable.

But Cybertron is gone; it is nothing more than a memory. And all that the Autobots have left is Earth, this planet. Prowl does not feel very victorious. How can they even begin to rebuild here?

Was there really no other option? Was destroying Cybertron the only choice Optimus could reach at the time?

Prowl's spark contracts. He no longer knows where to direct his efforts, what hope to cling to.

What he truly has left.

He isn't even sure how long has passed when he senses Optimus. His leader's energy field is a confusing tangle of mismatched emotions, and Prowl knows the he hasn't been sensed in return yet. Optimus is careful where he places his pedes, displaying a grace unusual for his size, but skilled at stealth he is not.

"If you had commed me, I would've come," Prowl says, not turning to acknowledge the other mech's approach. Still, his sensory panels twitching in recognition.

"This isn't an official matter," Prime replies, pausing once he stands beside Prowl. His bulk blocks off the dim glow of a single, functioning streetlight. "I was concerned for your welfare."

Bitterness crops up before Prowl can block it. "I'm not the one microns away from deactivation."

"Hound was a great soldier. He will be sorely missed."

Prowl twitches before he can reign it in. Prime speaks of Hound as though he's already offline. Has already written him off as some sort of acceptable loss. As if he doesn't even matter.

Prowl's helm dips. He doesn't dare look up at his Prime or mingle their fields. They've had this argument too many times, and he knows Prime's decision isn't going to change. The question that remains is... _why_? This Prime isn't the one Prowl remembers. Not at all.

"I noticed that Sunstreaker is sitting beside him," Prime continues either oblivious to Prowl's distress or unsympathetic; it isn't clear which is worse. "It's not uncommon for soldiers to seek comfort in one another. Are they… _involved_?"

Prowl rises then without even meaning to, and his core clenches. Prime might be their leader, but it isn't any of his business. Not anymore. Not when he's given up without a fight.

"I've lost more than half of my crew," Prowl states, and it's quite flat. "Not a one of us thinks it smart to bond in the midst of this war."

Which is not precisely an answer.

"It's my hope that the war's end will change that." Prime's helm lifts, optics focused on the darkened sky. "Earth has given us a chance for a new beginning. We must always be grateful to the humans for their aid."

The humans. Prime has placed his faith in the organics. But what of the millions who have died on Cybertron? The thousands of Autobots who offlined in the name of saving their planet? What have they sacrificed to obtain?

Cybertron is _gone_, and their reward is Earth? Prime calls this a victory? They are on the verge of extinction! How many Cybertronians are left, even if Prowl counts the Decepticons? Thousands? Hundreds?

Dozens?

Yet, it's the humans that Prime has chosen to place his faith in. The very same species who demands so much and gives so very little in return.

"What can we expect?" Prowl asks softly. "What future can we have, Optimus, when we are so few? When the Allspark is lost and our planet a ruin?"

A smile, unexpected, curls Optimus' lipplates. But it's so foreign, so surreal. Prime looks like a complete stranger then. Like a mech Prowl's never even met before.

His spark chills within him, and something like dread snakes through every line and pathway.

Optimus doesn't even notice the flicker of horror. He just keeps talking.

"There is always hope, old friend. It is up to us to find it wherever possible."

Prowl has to fight not to flinch when Optimus reaches out to touch him.

Empty words, empty promises.

Prowl slides out from under his hand with a graceful motion.

"You are right, of course," he concedes though he wants to shout otherwise, and he takes several steps back. "I think I will return to the base now. Hound shouldn't be alone."

He doesn't give Optimus the opportunity to request that he stay or argue with him otherwise. Prowl shifts into his alt-mode and races into the debris-strewn street, engine rumbling a throaty-pitch. This human-designed frame is unwieldy, lacking the sleek design of his Cybertronian mode, but it's the best Prowl could find. The goal, after all, is to blend in.

Optimus does not give chase, and what does this say about Prowl that he hadn't expected his Prime to do so. Optimus doesn't so much as toss a warning comm at Prowl's departing form. Instead, he turns his attention back to the dark sky and the winking stars and leaves Prowl to his own devices.

He isn't the mech Prowl remembers at all.

* * *

a/n: Part two of four, more to come!

Feedback is always welcome.


	9. Prowl Part Three

**War Without End**

**Prowl - Part III**

* * *

Hound is never alone.

Between Prowl and Sunstreaker, someone is always sitting at his berthside. Admittedly, it's Sunstreaker more often than Prowl since it doesn't take long for Optimus to involve his second-in-command in their alliance with the humans and the ongoing task of clearing out the Decepticons.

That their enemies hide is interesting in itself. Very few have shown their faceplates or attacked the humans head-on. But surely, they must be energon-starved, losing their processors in the midst of their isolation.

Prime, however, handles the remaining Decepticons personally. It's up to Prowl to familiarize himself with the details of the human-Autobot alliance. That means he has been introduced to Charlotte Mearing, and Prowl has honestly never met an entity he has wanted to step on so badly in his entire existence.

She fights him on everything, down to the quick. Supplies. Deployment orders. Land for the purpose of building a more permanent home. Freedom and privacy for the Autobots.

She demands technology, weapons and the like, which Prowl refuses to give her. The humans are dangerous enough in their own right, and if they haven't figured out to reverse-engineer Cybertronian weapons yet, Prowl is not about to hand over the instruction manual. There's something in Mearing's tone, in her eyes. It suggests ridding the universe of _all_ Cybertronians is the only way to get any peace.

Sitting by Hound, in their noisy corner of the warehouse, is all the respite Prowl receives. She tries the very depths of his patience, more so than Sideswipe or Sunstreaker ever succeeded. Prowl can't shake the notion that he's fighting a losing battle. Swimming upstream against the current, as the humans might say.

And while he wrestles with Mearing and struggles to find means to repair the Autobots without a medic and worries over the lack of quality energon and fills out sheet after sheet of useless paperwork, Prowl sits beside Hound. He watches his teammate, his friend, slowly fade away. Gradually dim and diminish.

It's agonizing. And not just for Hound.

They've disconnected him from the machines that sustain his systems. It's a waste of energy and resources, sustaining a spark that's withering away anyway. Or so Mearing so elegantly put it. Optimus in his most tactful way indicated that perhaps prolonging Hound's suffering is less than kind, too.

Without the steady, if not declining beeps of the machine, the proverbial quiet in this corner of the warehouse is all the more prevalent. All Prowl can hear is Hound's raspy ventilations, the soft hissing of hydraulics as he shifts on the berth.

Conversation, what little there is, remains stilted and awkward. Overwhelmed by the reality of the situation.

Hound is dying, little by little. Prowl fears every time he walks away that when he returns, it will be to an empty shell. It's only a matter of time, hours not days. Perhaps even minutes.

Nevertheless, Prowl returns every moment he has to spare. It's the only useful thing that he can do.

"Don't you… have work to do?" Hound asks when Prowl comes into view.

The pause between his words is noticeable. His ventilations have become more and more labored, and Prowl suspects the worst.

Sunstreaker is already here. Perched beside Hound as he has done during every free moment. Going so far as to recharge upright and on the uncomfortable crate.

"Nothing that cannot keep," Prowl assures his scout. He pulls up his own crate and seats himself near the mech's knees.

Prowl hears Hound reset his vocalizer. He tries to clear the static and only marginally succeeds.

"I'm sure it is important."

"Tch," Sunstreaker mutters, grinding gears in a gesture of disdain. "Who cares what new rules the squishies want?"

A look of affection and fond exasperation flickers onto Hound's faceplate. Then, it's gone again, the effort of holding any expression too great.

"Sunstreaker," Hound murmurs on a rattling ex-vent. His optics cycle in and out, as though struggling to focus.

Sunstreaker huffs but leans closer nonetheless, fingers grapping onto the edge of the berth. And Prowl doesn't miss the near-unconscious flinch that Hound tries to hide.

"Are you in pain?" he asks because Hound would never say if he were aloud. He thinks himself too much a burden already, no matter how much Prowl and Sunstreaker declare otherwise.

Their scout's lipplates curl in a weak smile. "I don't feel much of anything," he confesses.

Prowl's spark stutters. That isn't a good sign.

Worse that Hound's field has become nonexistent. Prowl stretches out his own, struggling to find any trace of the familiar, cheerful vibrations. There are none to be felt.

He reaches out, brushing his fingers over the plates on Hound's thigh. They're cool to the touch, and the thrum of living machinery is absent. His extremities are no longer receiving energon or charge.

Then, Sunstreaker's comm chines.

Hound's helm shifts in the most minute of movements. "Time… for your… shift."

Each word is forced. Dragged from his vocalizer.

Sunstreaker twitches. "Prime can shove it up his aft," he barks. "I'm not leaving." He lays a hand on Hound's chest, golden metal a direct contrast to the protoform-silver of Hound's own. Even his color nanites have already succumbed.

Blue optics, once a bright turquoise and now paler, flicker.

Prowl feels himself go rigid all over. He wants to look away. He can't bear to do so. Death hasn't been like this for too long. Offlining has always occurred quickly. He's never had to grieve while one of his bots still lived. He's never had to sit and watch one of his mechs wither away.

"Hound-"

Words fail him, constrict in his vocalizer. Prowl has no clue what to say, what platitudes to offer.

"I'm sorry," Hound forces out, power audibly rerouting to his vocalizer. "I should've… dodged that shot.

Sunstreaker's hand twitches on Hound's chassis. He makes a sound like agony, low and hollow.

"Don't you dare apologize," he grits out through clenched denta.

"If anyone is to blame, it is me," Prowl retorts and curls even closer.

Sunstreaker's gaze whips toward him. His optics are ablaze with more emotion than Prowl has ever seen him display.

"Don't you start either."

Hound chuckles, staticky and off-rhythm. He reaches out with motion Prowl didn't know he's capable of. Shaking fingers brush against Sunstreaker's face and make the warrior to turn his optics back. The soft brush of metal and metal seems unnaturally loud, and more notable is the way Sunstreaker doesn't pull away.

"Hey," Hound murmurs. Now, his attention is focused on Sunstreaker alone, though his optics are flickering slowly. "It's okay."

Sunstreaker's ventilations catch. His hand flattens on Hound's chassis, on the raggedly welded piece of temp plating. His fingers hook on a seam as though trying to strengthen Hound's spark with will alone. He leans closer, mouth moving, but whatever he says, Prowl can't hear it. Not that he's trying. The words aren't for him, they are for Hound only. Whatever they are, Hound manages a faint smile with whatever strength he has left.

A rattling ventilation seems abnormally loud. And Prowl waits for the next cycle. His audials are primed for it, counting the clicks.

It doesn't come.

Sunstreaker's helm dips further.

Pale optics flicker out and then don't online again.

The grey hand drops from Sunstreaker's cheek, landing with a solid clunk against the berth. Sunstreaker seems to lose his battle with gravity. He sinks down on the crate. His forehelm presses to Hound's shoulder, one hand curled in his lap. The other is still pressed to Hound's chassis.

Prowl has no words. His own ventilations are staggered, and his spark is small and tight. The emotion is there, but he can't break. He has to be the one who holds it together even if his greater urge is to flee into the night, wheels to the road, if only to find his sanity again.

A soft sound breaks the silence. Prowl half-turns, spotting Sideswipe. The twin's plating is covered in a thin layer of dust. He must've been on patrol, perhaps switching with one of the Wreckers in order to be here.

He and Sideswipe trade a glance, but no words are exchanged. Behind where Sideswipe appeared, Prowl notices one of the humans. Lennox. He's watching Sunstreaker and Sideswipe and Prowl, too. There's something in his eyes. Sympathy perhaps.

He says nothing, but he locks gazes briefly with Prowl before turning and walking away. For once, none of the busy humans around the warehouse are watching. They are all scurrying around with their busy little lives, paying no attention to the tragedy mere feet away.

It's enough to make Prowl's tanks roil.

Sideswipe, obviously, is only here for his twin. He wastes no time in approaching his brother and lightly resting a hand on Sunstreaker's shoulder. His twin gives no sign that he's noticed Sideswipe. Save for the bare shift in his energy field. An invitation to share his pain.

-Prime to Prowl.-

The sudden comm shatters Prowl's thoughts. He jerks to his pedes and whirls away, if only to hide the expression of distaste on his face. Could there be any worse timing?

-Prowl here.-

-Captain Manus informs me that Sunstreaker hasn't shown for his shift. He isn't responding to my comms either,- Prime replies with no preamble.

Prowl shutters his optics. He cycles several ventilations if only to keep himself calm.

-There are extenuating circumstances, Optimus.-

A moment of silence passes before understanding colors Prime's transmission.

-Hound?-

Prowl fights to control himself at the complete and utter nonchalance in that name.

-Yes.-

But it's clipped. Brittle.

-My condolences.-

There's something not-quite-right in the flat way Prime offers his sympathies, as though the matter is far removed from him. As though losing one of his Autobots is simply a piece of data to be absorbed and cataloged.

There once was a time that everyone believed Prowl to be so sparkless. And yet, he is now experiencing it from the famously soft-sparked Optimus. The incongruity is startling.

-I will arrange for someone else to cover Sunstreaker's shift,- Prowl replies because he doesn't know how else to respond.

-I'll inform Dino for you. Prime out.-

The quick dismissal is as startling as the sudden hailing.

Prowl, reeling, closes the line and cycles yet another ventilation. His pump feels as though it is straining in polar directions, utterly torn. His field buzzes around his frame; only his tight grip keeps it from flooding the warehouse. Bit by bit, he's losing control.

He onlines his optics, turning back toward Sideswipe and Sunstreaker. The latter of whom has allowed Sideswipe to pull him away from Hound's empty and cold frame. Sideswipe also, has completed the painful task of drawing the shutters on Hound's optics, saving them the bitter sight of dark sockets.

Anger surges in Prowl as strong as the sorrow, and all of his emotions are an inexplicable tangle. He wants to grieve; he wants to shout. He wants to draw his blaster and destroy something, everything. He wants to find the nearest Decepticon and claim his spark. He wants the war to be over, frag it.

And it is. Or so Optimus claims.

But if that were true, why are Autobots still losing their sparks?

o0o0o

There's an ache in his spark that won't leave. It haunts him, minute by minute, making it difficult to concentrate on the assignments Prime has given him.

It's only been an Earth day since Hound went cold. Hardly enough time to even begin processing that truth.

And Sunstreaker...

Prowl firms his lipplates together. He hadn't needed another reason to despise Mearing or their so-called human allies, but they keep offering him opportunities every which way he turns.

Primus forbid they should be given time to grieve. Prowl largely suspects that their human allies do not acknowledge the Autobots as being truly sapient. That they look at the Autobots and see only highly advanced robots, machines that produce a facsimile of emotion.

Then again, considering how Optimus hasn't so much as unleashed a warble of sadness in his field, perhaps they have a point. Dino has barely managed a sad look in Hound's direction. It's as though in the millennia that stand between them, Prime and his team and those gathered here have become closer to machines and further from their sapient selves.

It's worrisome.

Prowl doesn't know this Prime. He looks into Optimus' optics, and he sees a stranger. Not the unfamiliar sight of a soldier who has looked into the maw of war and come out changed. But those of a mech who may have been a lie all along. Who was nothing more than a figment.

It's disconcerting to say the least.

He remembers Optimus. He remembers willingly coming to that mech's service, despite all the confusion regarding his origins. Whether or not he was a true Prime or just the leader they all needed once Sentinel vanished. But Prowl always preferred Optimus over Sentinel, even if the former was so foolish.

Wanting peace all over Cybertron, believing in the good of any mech, often to his own detriment. Wanting to trust everyone around him.

Prowl remembers an Optimus who was approachable. Who saw beyond class or make or even caste.

He doesn't know this mech. This... _warmonger_, who has bowed himself to their human allies to the detriment of their own kind. Writing off a bot who has been with him throughout the millennia and even before their planet devolved into war.

Optimus isn't Prime. He's become some kind of militant. One who seeks only the next battle, only the next victory. It's as though he cannot see peace anymore. Not under the rivers of energon spilled. Someone who can't abide by peace anyway.

Prowl worries.

Has their Prime fallen? Has the _line_ of Primes become broken?

Is the war to blame for Prime's changes? Or perhaps it was the betrayal of his brother-spark? The shattering of the bond that he and Megatron shared in their dual leadership? Was it when Ultra Magnus offlined?

Was it when he came to Earth?

Was aiding in the death of his brother the final blow? Was watching Sentinel betray him the acid on a torn line?

So many questions. Too many questions.

Prowl wishes he could contact Ratchet. He's starting to suspect that Ratchet is not compromised but truly did leave of his own free will. Prowl wants to know why. What did the medic see? What was the last rusted cog that led Ratchet to disappear?

He needs answers, and Prowl's searches have come up frustratingly short. The datapacket Optimus gave him only mentions Ratchet in passing and has no details on the medic's disappearance. What files Prowl can access on the human's systems are also equally sparse. As though both human and Autobot alike are seeking to conceal the truth of Ratchet's departure.

No one wants to talk. Optimus changes the subject. Dino and the Wreckers only know what they saw. Sideswipe was present, but he doesn't know anything either. Prowl hasn't bothered to ask the humans. It's quite clear that they don't care what happened to Ratchet beyond the threat the medic's absence might represent.

And Prowl hasn't seen plating nor energy field of Bumblebee since his arrival on this planet. Optimus claims that his scout spends most of his time in the presence of Sam Witwicky and doesn't seem bothered by the fact that his loyal soldier doesn't care to socialize with his fellow Cybertronians.

There are secrets here. Many of them. Prowl doesn't like secrets that he isn't privy to.

Jazz would've found them out. Jazz would've kept Prowl informed. Primus! Jazz would've known exactly where Ratchet had gone and why.

Jazz probably would've gone with him.

Prowl vents softly, panels drooping. They too ache. Especially the one on the right. Sideswipe fixed to his best ability. Nonetheless, there's a crimp somewhere, and it sends low pulses of irritation to Prowl's sensory net from time to time.

"Am I interrupting something?"

Prowl's panels jerk upright, provoking a hiss that he fights down. He turns around slowly. Awkwardly in his current chair and desk that consist of a stack of storage crates crammed into the first open corner in the warehouse.

His recognition software has already identified the speaker as Colonel Lennox. Prowl isn't surprised to find the human standing there, expression carefully neutral.

"Was there something you needed?"

Lennox's head dips, eyes searching Prowl intently. "Actually, I was going to ask you that question." He pauses and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry about Hound. I didn't know him at all, but well, I know what it's like to lose soldiers."

He would be the first to offer condolences. Whether they are honest or not.

Prowl's posture softens if only by a micron.

"Thank you," he responds, though he severely doubts the human can even begin comprehending the true depth of what it is like to lose a soldier one has fought and survived beside for eons. "There's nothing to be done now, however, but to ready ourselves for the final ceremony."

That draws the human up short. He cocks his head and brings his hand up in a peculiar way that Prowl finds oddly familiar.

"Ceremony?"

Prowl flickers his optics. "You would call it a funeral."

"Ah." Lennox folds his arms over his chest then and hunches his shoulders, suddenly uncomfortable. "You really should talk to Prime about that."

There's something in that statement. Something hinting over the hidden. It sends a chill up Prowl's processor.

"I intend to."

That is, if he can ever get a moment of Optimus' time. One that isn't overwhelmed by some new pile of information that his leader feels Prowl needs to assimilate.

Lennox rocks on the balls of his feet in a gesture very similar to a particular twin.

"Sideswipe tells me that Sunstreaker's gone into solitary," the human says then.

Annoyance creeps in again, despite Prowl's best efforts to fight it down, and his engine gives a small rev. It's true that the Autobots do not have anything resembling a brig, but that has not stopped Mearing from devising a means to punish. A tiny shipping container has become a makeshift cell just large enough for one Autobot. But barely.

"Yes," he allows in a clipped tone and turns back to his desk and his work, assuming that Lennox will leave. "Mearing didn't appreciate his refusal to show up for several of his assigned patrols."

Never mind that Hound was dying. Never mind that none of them are pleased with the fact that they are all but _serving_ their so-called allies. Even now, eighty percent of Prowl's duties circulate around the humans, their requests, their problems.

Lennox is one of the few who seems to solve his own.

"He was with Hound, wasn't he?" the colonel questions, and his manner is very solemn then. Tired.

Prowl stiffens but gives a nod. "Yes."

Lennox makes a noise of disgust, and the twist to his expression is visible from one of Prowl's lateral sensors.

"She probably didn't give a damn either." He mutters, "That bitch."

Prowl's faceplates set in a neutral expression, but inside, he's surprised. He turns toward the human.

"Pardon?"

"What?" Lennox arches an orbital ridge and shows no sign of fear despite the fact he could easily become a smear beneath Prowl's pede. "Just 'cause she's human means I'm obligated to like her? That's awfully narrow-minded of you."

"That isn't what I meant." Prowl is careful to choose his words, but he also takes a closer look at Lennox, seeing more in the human this time than he has acknowledged before. "She is your superior officer, yes?"

Lennox visibly shudders. "She's government, yeah, but she's not the one who pulls my strings. I report to General Morshower."

None of Lennox's contempt for Mearing is present in regards to the second human. Instead, there is genuine warmth and respect. Curious.

"Mearing's just the typical politician with her head up her aft and no clue what it's like to actually be here on the frontlines," the colonel finishes.

Perhaps Prowl isn't the only one who finds it frustrating to have dealings with Mearing. It seems she is talented at thwarting anyone who does not conform to her own plans.

"She has proven to be... _difficult_," Prowl acknowledges with an element of tact that would've made Jazz proud.

Lennox snorts. "Yeah. Difficult. That's the word I'd use." He shakes his head, as though trying to clear away mere thought of her. "I'm serious, Prowl. If there's anything I can do to help, let me know."

Prowl looks at him for a very long moment. This human isn't like the other ones. There's something in his demeanor. In the way he carries himself. It's so very familiar.

"Why?"

He's genuinely curious.

The human unfolds his arms and runs an anxious hand through his hair once more. He doesn't look at Prowl, and his gaze is distant.

"Because Annabelle – my daughter – still asks me when Hide's coming home, and I die a little more each time I have to tell her he's not." Lennox breathes out and finally glances up. "I really am on your side. Even if it seems like no one else is."

Prowl struggles to find words. In the face of so much loss, he hasn't had much time to mourn Ironhide. It never occurred to him that one of the humans might in his stead.

"I understand," he says, keeping his tone soft and even. "Thank you, Colonel Lennox."

He smiles. "You can call me Will, if you want. Ironhide always did."

"Very well." Prowl inclines his helm. "Thank you, William."

The colonel makes a face, but it's tinted with playfulness.

"Close enough."

William's half-smirk is a pale shade of amusement, but it's there nevertheless. And Prowl begins to see why Ironhide was so drawn to this human.

o0o0o

The discovery of three Decepticons in India derails Prowl's efforts to discuss Hound's ceremony with Optimus. Instead, he watches as Prime, Roadbuster, and Dino take off in a large human aircraft. They are heading for far shores in order to put down the threat, and it seems even with the war ended, the battle has not been won.

Prowl hopes that the encounter is short and swift. With Ratchet gone, they have no medic. And he doesn't think he can watch another of his own offline so soon.

Optimus' absence frees up Prowl as well, especially since Sunstreaker is still in solitary. Prowl has his own duties, but for once, the thought of returning to the datapads of dry facts that Optimus gave him holds no appeal. And while he's never been a mech who loathes confined spaces, there is something about the cluttered, noisy, and yet open space of the warehouse that sets him on edge.

Perhaps it's the multitudes of humans constantly moving around underfoot, no bigger than recently sparked hatchlings and equally ignorant to the danger. It is exhausting to keep track of so many scurrying forms, and the humans don't even have the safety-sensors that all hatchlings are equipped with. Nor do they seem to care whether or not they are in range of an Autobot's pede.

It's been a month since Prowl and his team arrived here, and he still feels as uncomfortable here as he had since the crash. This place, this warehouse, these humans... they do not feel like home. Prowl despairs that they ever will.

He wanders around the compound on the edge of the ruins of Chicago, occasionally glancing at the shattered skyline and the destroyed buildings that are still somehow standing. The humans suffered a terrible blow at the hands of the Decepticons and Sentinel, but Prowl is still appalled by what truths led to the battle in this city.

They _surrendered_ themselves to the Decepticons, agreed to ship the Autobots off-planet. What did they think was going to happen? Years of fighting alongside the Autobots and they still hadn't realized the Decepticons couldn't be trusted? What special kind of glitches were these humans?

Then again, the Nebulans had tried the same thing. The sight of their planet reduced to a decimating black hole is all the convincing Prowl has ever needed.

Dispirited, Prowl continues his wandering, taking note of the locations of all the buildings, the armories, the insentient vehicle storage, and what areas the humans consider off-limits. He finds some storage facilities, another hangar that seems to be a collection of all the Cybertronian tech recovered, and a third storehouse that contains the wreckage of his shuttle. Humans currently crawl all over the scorched hull and shattered ruins.

What Prowl does not find, however, is any trace of a mausoleum. There may have been one at their base in Washington before Sentinel destroyed it, but there should also be one present here or close by. After all, half a dozen Autobots died in Sentinel's betrayal and the following battle.

There is no map in the file Optimus gave him. There are no directions, no indications of its location anywhere. Not on this particular continent or on this planet for that matter. Where then has Optimus entombed their fallen comrades? Where has he placed the pieces that couldn't be salvaged and worn to honor their brethren?

Bumblebee still has not shown his faceplate. Leadfoot is recharging. Topspin, Prowl knows, is on a routine patrol. That leaves Sideswipe to ask, and so the lieutenant seeks him out.

He finds Sideswipe on the other side of the base's runway in his alt-mode, not quite recharging but soaking up the warmth of Earth's sun. It is a novelty, Prowl thinks, to have a sun again. Perhaps the only aspect of Earth that he has grown fond of in his short residence on this planet.

"Never thought I'd see the orn when you, of all mechs, were restless," the warrior comments as he approaches, tires crackling over gravel interspersed with weeds.

Prowl slips out of alt-mode. "Were you watching me?"

Sideswipe too emerges into his root form. His arms stretch out with crackling pops of joints and hisses of hydraulics.

"Sometimes, I hack the humans' radio chatter." He makes a nonchalant motion. "They were keeping tabs on you."

Prowl hesitates a click. That's the sort of behavior one would give the presence of an enemy in his or her midst, not supposed allies.

"I see."

He frowns. Do the humans distrust them so much?

"How is Sunstreaker?" Prowl tries instead.

"Were you really bored enough to look for conversation?" Sideswipe redirects, scuffing one tire against the ground and pulling up clods of damp dirt. It rained yesterday, a phenomenon that no longer surprises Prowl, having seen it on other organic planets.

Prowl vents softly. "I take it he is unhappy."

"That's putting it tactfully. Good for you. Finally learned it." Sideswipe grins, but it doesn't contain an ounce of humor. "Maybe we should give Sunny some kind of long-range patrol because he hasn't stopped bitching about Mearing since they shoved him in that crate. But that's Sunny for ya. Nice to see some things haven't changed."

Implied in Sideswipe's words are that other things have. Sunstreaker is different, and if Prowl can recognize this, of course his brother can.

The lieutenant makes a wordless noise of acknowledgment. Sideswipe gives him a sidelong look.

"But you didn't come to the furthest edge of the base to ask me about my brother," Sideswipe says and folds his arms over his chestplate, a mannerism he must've picked up from the humans. "What is it?"

Prowl turns his attention to the landscape. From here he can see a great expanse of water, the Great Lakes according to a quick internet search.

"I wish to pay my respects to Jazz," he replies, and his tone is soft. Aching. "Where is the mausoleum?"

Sideswipe gives a harsh intake. That's Prowl's first indication that he's not going to like the answer. But it's his optics that seal the deal.

"We don't have one."

Prowl's panels jerk upright. But he forces them to relax.

"Was it destroyed?"

Sideswipe has to look away, and that makes Prowl's processor prickle.

"No," he retorts, and it's long and drawn out. "We never had one. Not in Diego. Not in Washington. And not here." Sideswipe's energy field spikes with a querulous mix of anger and resignation. "They've moved us around so much we never could build anything. Not that it matters. The humans had a better idea of where we could keep the fallen."

The bitterness in his tone is tangible. Prowl call all but taste it, and he nearly shudders. He dreads the answer, but he still needs to ask.

"Where?"

Blue optics darken with disgust. Sideswipe doesn't look at him still. Doesn't dare.

"It made sense at first. Who cares about the Decepticons anyway? They deserve whatever they got, and what better place to shove them than the deepest, darkest place on this planet?" His engine gives an unhappy rumble. "But then… they put Jazz there, too. Optimus didn't fight them on it."

Prowl stares at him. And keeps staring.

Jazz was… He'd been… What? What was this?

"I don't understand," Prowl admits, and he really doesn't. "What do you mean?"

It comes out like a demand, and Prowl would be mortified at the emotional tone were it not for the circumstances.

Sideswipe, however, wears an indescribable expression.

"Jazz got dumped just like the 'Cons," he repeats.

There's a buzzing, staticky noise in Prowl's audials. It rattles through his processor and right into his spark. Right where Jazz should be but isn't.

He aches for the loss and knows he won't ever stop.

Few mechs even realize that they aren't true siblings. Know that they'd found each other later and formed a connection beyond mere friendship. Beyond imprinting even. A true and lasting bond.

But Optimus knows. Had always known. He'd treated them just the same. Had given them all the same privileges and rights that true brothers shared. Had never treated them as anything but siblings.

And now… Now, of all times, he's decided to treat Jazz like gutter trash? To throw him away like unwanted scrap?

Ice filters into Prowl's lines. So cold that it burns all the way through. Empty like Cybertron was at the end and twice as bitter.

"Where?" he snarls, and he doesn't have to explain the question.

Sideswipe looks at him then. "They call it the Laurentian Abyss. To them, it has some sort of cultural significance. To me, it's just a dark hole in their planet's crust. A Primus-forsaken maw at the bottom of the ocean. A place ya send mechs to rust."

Horror floods Prowl's processor and replaces the anger. He struggles for words. His vocalizer clicks but forms no syllables. They entombed Jazz with the Decepticons. They threw him down in some pit like nothing more than slag to be scrapped off.

And they hadn't even told him. Him… Prowl… Jazz's brother!

The anger is back now. But it's more like rage. More like the agonizing cold of deep space and infinitely more desolate.

"And the others?"

His tone would almost be neutral were it not for his optics. For the gleam and glare. For the tightening of his hands and jaw.

"It's a deep hole." Sideswipe's shrug seems casual, but Prowl can see the disdain. "There was plenty of room for more."

"That's..."

Words fail him yet again.

Over the millennia, the ability to properly entomb their fallen soldiers was left by the wayside. Cybertron was out of reach. Battlefields were large and numerous. Often times, the fallen warriors were parted to provide one last service to their brethren. But if the opportunity presented itself, if there was a lull and they had the resources, Prowl knew that they did their best to give a proper ceremony to those who had lost their sparks.

But this... this is unfathomable.

Reality strikes Prowl in the next thought-cycle. This is what they will do to Hound. They will take his frame and chuck it into the deep sea with the rest of the Cybertronians, Autobot and Decepticon alike.

His ventilations stutter.

"Yeah," Sideswipe allows, fingers curling into visible fists. "From what I hear, Ratchet hadn't liked it either. Not that our glorious leader was listening. He doesn't listen to any of us anymore."

o0o0o

Sunstreaker is not present and Prowl, admittedly, is glad for it. The warrior wouldn't have agreed to this farce of a ceremony. He would've done something irreparable.

Mearing surprisingly allows Sunstreaker to pause his sentence in order to attend the so-called funeral, but Sunstreaker refuses to emerge from his confinement. Sideswipe backs his brother up, and so it is a small collection of Autobots that gather for Hound's sending, if that is what Prowl wishes to call it.

His only consolation is that they aren't yet depositing Hound in the ocean. Too much cost, Mearing grumbled, to ship off one Autobot frame. They'll wait until they have more Decepticon remains to make the transport economical.

Human music plays in the background, a warble of some high-pitched instrument that grates on Prowl's sensors. A small assemblage of human soldiers have come to pay their respects, among them Lennox, but they are even less than the Autobots.

Bumblebee still hasn't returned.

Prowl watches, spark a leaden weight in his casing, as Hound is rolled out of the warehouse on the back of a flatbed, arranged in the humans' idea of repose. The sight of his frame so still and silent is like watching him offline all over again.

Worse still is the alarmingly small shipping container that shall serve as Hound's casket. It's smaller even than the box that confines Sunstreaker and barely big enough to hold Hound's bulky frame. Someone has messily scrawled the Autobot symbol on the outside. And recently at that, as the paint is still dripping in lurid dribbles down the rusted metal.

Optimus is the one to lift Hound's frame from the flatbed and place it inside with more care than Prowl half-expected. He doesn't know what to think anymore, not when it comes to their Prime. All of his calculations are useless; his percentages shift with each revelation.

The music ends, the half-dozen soldiers snap a salute, and the doors on the cargo container shut with a screech of metal and a dull thud. Optimus flicks the latch into place, tightens the clamps, and signals for the pulley to start reeling the container into the cargo bay of the transport. Prowl knows that from there, it will wait for other containers with similar cargo before the final trip to the ocean.

No, Prowl is completely wrong. There is no consolation to be found here at all.

The soldiers disperse. Sideswipe, at the back of the crowd, rolls away. His expression is unreadable, and he's no doubt contacting his brother over a private line. The Wreckers also disperse. Roadbuster to patrol, Leadfoot to the warehouse where he's been tinkering with Prowl's destroyed shuttle, and Topspin to recharge.

Prowl lingers, watching the transport until it is a mere speck in the distance. His emotions are so chaotic he cannot even describe them to himself. Almost as though he is numb, truth be told.

How many ways, he asks himself, has he failed Hound? Shall he add this to the list?

His processor seems stalled; messages to his motion circuits misfire. He knows he needs to move, get back to work, but the idea of returning to the diplomatic issues with their human allies makes his tanks churn. They have given so much, and yet, Mearing cannot spare a single compromise.

Optimus approaches, and for a brief, shocking moment, Prowl has the urge to turn and walk away. Almost unconsciously, his field draws tightly around his frame, not so much as a wisp escaping. His panels flatten and arch, a purely protective formation. And Prowl's horrified to realize that, for a second, his defensive subroutines has responded with autonomic precision as though considering Prime a threat.

Yet, Optimus' battlemask is withdrawn. His optics are bright, almost friendly, and there's a smile on his face. He's not being aggressive, his weapons are gone, and his energy positively buzzes.

"How are you?" Optimus asks, vocal tones rife with harmonics. They contain bare traces of the soothing tones he used to bear in abundance.

"I am functional," Prowl replies, and he swears it sounds faint.

"It's always hard," Prime says, sounding in that moment, very much like his old self. "There are so few of us now. Each new loss is a fresh wound. We can take comfort, however, in knowing that the war is over. We can begin to rebuild, start anew, forming bridges between ourselves and our new human allies."

For some reason, Prowl's processor stutters. The war is over. Why does that sound so false?

And why does he suddenly think of Blitzwing in this moment? And Astrotrain who is no doubt lingering on Earth's moon.

Blitzwing was restrained, cuffed and mobility-bound. They could've taken him into custody and questioned him about the remaining Decepticons. Prowl expected to hear Optimus give one of his grand speeches about the right of all beings and follow it up with giving the Decepticon the opportunity to defect if he so chose.

That Leadfoot fired a round into first Blitzwing's helm and then his spark chamber was something Prowl never expected. That Optimus wouldn't protest seemed even more unlikely.

The war is over. They can rebuild. And all Decepticons must die apparently.

It seems logical. Dare they trust a Decepticon? Dare they risk what few lives remain on the hopes that a 'Con might legitimately defect?

Leadfoot's method, however, seems too callous. Too uncompromising. And never in all Prowl's existence serving the Autobots, has he ever seen their faction reduced to execution.

Until now.

The war is over. Megatron is offline. As are Starscream and Soundwave and Shockwave. Anyone who might be capable of uniting the Decepticons.

The Allspark is gone. They have no future.

The war is over.

Why won't that simple fact compute?

Prime though isn't privy to his thoughts. He continues on blithely. Without care.

"For that, old friend, I will call upon your aid." Prime lays a hand on Prowl's shoulder, as companionable as millennia past, but this time, his sensors crawl with revulsion. "We need to cement our alliance, build ourselves a home here, and I need your help."

The lieutenant forces a smile to his face, but it droops along the edges.

"Of course, Optimus. I am here to support you. What would you have me do?"

Prime expression brightens with the sort of glee that seems incongruous to the situation. "The humans have asked for our assistance in taking down several organizations that have proven a threat. Your talents in putting together plans will cut down on their losses, and you will best know how to incorporate the Autobots into their tactics."

Prowl reboots his audials, certain he had misheard. "You want me to plan their next battle against their own kind? And also include Autobot troops?"

"Yes."

"That's..." Prowl struggles to formulate a response that's not overly insubordinate. "Optimus, we are not mercenaries hired out to the highest bidder. We're Autobots."

His leader's hand retracts. Prowl suppresses a sigh of relief.

"And as such we are dedicated to preserving life," Prime states almost loftily. "Is it too much for our allies to ask for this assistance?"

"Yes," Prowl responds perhaps too hastily and rushes to explain himself. "We are significantly larger than our human counterparts and better armed. We can't be so biased as to allow ourselves to only offer aid to one portion of this planet's population. It would destroy the balance of power!"

Prime chuckles. "You are overthinking the matter, Prowl. These aren't petty disagreements after all. These men are insurgents, terrorists even. They are a threat to the lives of countless civilians."

"By whose definition?"

"The last thing we need, Prowl, is to start questioning our allies. If we want to gain trust we must first offer it in return."

Prime gives him a patient look like one might a misbehaving hatchling. Or long ago, one Prowl might have given a querulous Sideswipe.

Prowl fights with himself.

"Of course," he allows grudgingly. "I will do the best I can. When will they need a workable plan?"

"As soon as possible." Joy returns to Prime's energy field. "With this, we can further cement our ties to our new allies, building the foundation for a place we can call home. Thank you, Prowl."

"Anything for the Autobot cause."

If he sounds disinterested or skeptical, Optimus doesn't seem to notice. He simply strides away with the strut of a confidence leader, his shoulders unburdened and the future bright and charming.

Prowl feels as though he's the one standing in shadows, grasping for signs of the light, but it's nowhere to be found. How much is he going to compromise? How much will he have to surrender for Optimus' idea of their future?

What else are the humans going to demand from them? What else will he hand over? When will it end?

* * *

a/n: Part three of four. One more to go!


	10. Prowl Part Four

**War Without End**

**Prowl - Part IV**

* * *

The energy field that blasts Prowl nearly knocks him off his pedes. It's frenzied with barely suppressed aggression, and it's clear that Sunstreaker's two weeks spent in solitude have done no good for anyone. This was less punishment and more torture, but all of Prowl's attempts to argue the penalty fell on deaf ears and audials both.

Sunstreaker staggers out, but before Prowl can move forward, Sideswipe is there to catch his brother, whose optics are dull and his finish equally so. The last time Prowl saw Sunstreaker's paint in such disrepair was after the battle on some distant moon, and Sunstreaker barely survived getting stepped on by a gestalt.

"Easy," Sideswipe murmurs, hand on his brother's chestplate to keep him steady. "Don't go crazy on me, bro."

Somehow, Sunstreaker dredges up a glare for his twin.

"Kiss my aft," he snarls.

Ah, brotherly love.

"Are you in need of energon?" Prowl questions, having learned from experience that it's best to be straightforward with Sunstreaker. Pretense never works with him.

Sideswipe snorts. "Of course, he does. He's running on fumes by now! Mearing wouldn't let him fuel up before she ordered him in there."

Prowl ignores Sideswipe's indignation. "Sunstreaker?"

"Yeah," he responds in a gravelly tone. "Could use a cube or two."

Prowl pulls one out of subspace, brought along specifically for this reason, and hands it over. Leaning on his brother, the yellow mech downs half the cube in one gulp, giving credence to Sideswipe's earlier statement.

Prowl frowns. Sunstreaker probably needs an overhaul. Like the rest of them. Not that there's a medic present to do so.

"Did they do it?" the golden twin demands once he chugs down the other half and disperses the cube with a clench of his fist.

Sideswipe's orbital ridges draw together, but Prowl knows what Sunstreaker means.

"Yes," he replies and pulls another item from his subspace, one he's been holding onto for the past week. "It was a waste of energon to try and argue otherwise. No one else had succeeded after all."

Sunstreaker's face twisted with disgust. "Barbarians."

"They are young and naïve, still in that stage of development ruled by arrogance," Prowl corrects.

Sunstreaker shifts. He puts more weight on his own pedes as the energon floods his systems.

"Don't give me that slag, Prowl. They're just not afraid of us. Prime's done his best to ensure that."

"We do not need our allies to fear us," Prowl counters, but there's only cold calculation. "They are capable of bringing us harm, if you do recall."

"Tch." Sunstreaker's engine whines, a half-sparked rev. "We should just leave. They don't want us here, and I don't want to be here."

Sideswipe, whose optics have been darting back and forth between the two, frowns. "I'm feeling a bit left out here."

"That's because you're dull-witted," Sunstreaker shoots back, but it lacks heat. He flickers his optics at his brother and shifts his gaze to Prowl. "Tell me you want to stay and I won't believe you."

Prowl ignores the latter statement. "We are under constant surveillance. Nevertheless, I was able to obtain this for you." He steps forward and hands over the tiny item he had procured.

It's a small chip from Hound's spark chamber. It even still radiates a measure of the familiar feel of Hound's spark and undoubtedly will for millennia to come. After all, it has housed Hound's essence for countless vorns, since his very creation.

Prowl was forced to rely on programs Jazz had once given in order to sneak around the base and acquire that tiny splinter. He hadn't felt like explaining to the humans why he was doing so and was even more reluctant to ask Optimus for permission. He knew it never would've been granted anyway.

Sunstreaker takes the sliver, a whorl of Cybertonium alloys that glint in the sunlight, with more care than Prowl has ever seen him treat anything. The chip is tiny, barely the width of Prowl's finger, but anything larger would've been more difficult to acquire. Prowl himself kept Hound's Autobot marker, the same as he has for all of their fallen teammates.

It's the only way he has to remember. To remind himself of his failures.

"Thank you," Sunstreaker murmurs with complete and utter sincerity as he tucks the shard into a small cache he has in his armor, near to his own spark chamber.

Prowl gives a nod. He wants to do more, but he doesn't know how.

"He would've wanted you to have it," he offers instead.

"Yeah, probably. He's always been soft-sparked to the core."

Sunstreaker's tone, however, is wistful and the frenetic whirl of his field finally settles on a blend of grief and fondness. He's quiet for a moment then, looking out at nothing in particular before his gaze goes back to his lieutenant.

"What are we doing, Prowl?" he asks unexpectedly.

He cycles his optics. "What do you mean?"

Sunstreaker, steady on his own pedes now, stares back at him. "Prime's lost his processor. The humans are walking all over us. Hound's _gone_. What the frag are we doing, Prowl? Where do we go from here?"

"Go? We go nowhere." Prowl shifts, sensory panels flattening against his back. "We are Autobots, and Optimus is our Prime. There is nothing else."

"Now that's downright depressing," Sideswipe says, a poor attempt at a joke. "All this time, fighting and surviving, and _this_ is our reward? A berth of concrete, oily energon, and the disdain of our allies. Why… it's just like old times."

"With all due respect, that's a slag-poor plan," Sunstreaker adds, frown deepening.

Prowl shakes his helm. His processor is starting to ache.

"Leaving is not an option. Where would we go?"

"Ratchet's out there somewhere," Sideswipe offers, and there's a playful tint to his tone that isn't entirely real.

Prowl looks at him. "You want to be a Decepticon, is that it?"

"Never said that!" Sideswipe slams to a halt and whirls around. "Primus, Prowl. I'm an Autobot. Always will be. And so is Ratchet."

Prowl merely tilts his head. His demeanor is calm, but he inside churn.

"And yet, he isn't here."

Sunstreaker huffs. "Can you blame him?" One wobbling arm gestures to the ramshackle warehouses that serve as their home. "Take a look around, Prowl. There's nothing here for us. _Nothing_."

Prowl's helm dips. "You would abandon the Autobots and join forces with known Decepticons then? It's a simple matter to you?"

"Hey. Sunny never said that," Sideswipe protests, and he's almost angry now. "And neither did I. We're just saying, you know, something's not quite right here."

"Besides," Sunstreaker retorts and gives his brother a push despite how much he's wobbling. "Leaving Prime and joining the Decepticons are not the same thing."

Sideswipe nods, but there's a shadow to his face. A darkening to the blue of his optics. He shares a look with his brother.

"We're Autobots," he says very softly. "We made that choice. And we're sticking to it."

Prowl isn't sure he believes either of them.

o0o0o

Sideswipe's words haunt him.

Prowl tries to bury the implications in the depths of his processor and focus only his work, the task Optimus has given him. It's significantly easier to plan a course of action regarding the humans and their enemies. Incorporating the Autobots doesn't complicate matters much, though there are precious few to assign.

He still loathes the idea of this. He finds it unprincipled and a waste of the Autobots' time and energy. There are still Decepticons out there after all. Not to mention their lack of a permanent residence.

The task must be done, however, and Prowl bends himself to it. Despite the discomfort of his makeshift office, the noise of the warehouse, and the nagging thoughts that hover on the edge of his concentration. He hasn't had a solid defrag since landing on this planet, and Prowl despairs of ever acquiring one. Not here in this noisy warehouse, that's for certain.

He can't shut down properly. Too much noise, too much movement. His sensors go haywire; he feels surrounded by threats, and his systems won't cycle down. Sunstreaker's confinement hadn't helped matters, though Prowl is hardly of the sort to _ask_ the warrior to guard his recharge. He's starting to suspect though that this may be his only option.

The sound of a human clearing his throat pulls him from his musings a minute later. He looks down, identifying the visitor with little surprise.

"You are here for the first draft, I presume?" Prowl asks, watching as William effortlessly climbs several stacks of supplies until he is more or less at optics level. This suggests familiarity, a task that the colonel has done time and time again.

Considering that this is all that remains of Ratchet's medcorner, perhaps William spent more time than he is admitting in Ratchet's company.

William rolls his shoulders. "It's not my gig, so I guess some lackey will come by soon enough for it."

Prowl considers that.

"Is there another reason for your visit?" he inquires and is honestly curious.

"It's not official. I just wanted to see how you were doing." The colonel makes himself comfortable on the crate. "I don't see you in the field like I do the others."

Prowl inclines his helm. "I'm primarily a tactician. I'm not often needed on the frontlines. Although with our limited personnel, that is likely to change in the future."

"The future?" William draws up a leg to balance his arm across it. "As in, more battles? But the war's over."

"There are still Decepticons on this planet. Your latest intelligence puts the estimates at approximately thirty." Prowl turns back toward his assortment of datapads, selecting one on his far left. "My calculations put that number closer to fifty."

The discrepancies are only because Prowl is taking into account the number of Decepticons that are still hiding on the moon, like Astrotrain currently is and Blitzwing was earlier. Surely, not all of them had hopped Sentinel's space bridge, and others may have arrived as well.

William lets out a slow whistle. "That's not good."

Prowl's intakes rattle, and he pauses to contemplate the noise. He could probably use a comprehensive flush. He isn't receiving any system-wide errors. To be fair, he hasn't seen a medic since Hoist was killed in a surprise bombing.

Their first encounter upon leaving Cybertron resulted in a full third of Prowl's crew offlining, his medic the very first to fall. In retrospect, he should have taken that incident as a sign of the sparkbreak and grief to come.

"By now, they must be desperate for energy," Prowl finally replies, again shuffling his datapads. "It will make them reckless. We should be able to locate them easier."

The colonel studies him then. His optics – eyes – are small but full of emotion.

"Locate and destroy, you mean," he clarifies.

Prowl shifts before he can stop himself. "If they will not lay down arms and comply, yes."

The human scratches the side of his nose. His demeanor is strange. Almost hesitant. Like Ironhide when he wanted to say something but had thought the better of it at the last click.

"You... uh... haven't been reading all of the reports, have you?"

William's reluctance gives reason for Prowl to once more study the human.

"I have assimilated the details of every report Optimus has given me and those I've found on the servers at this base." He leans forward very slightly. "Why do you ask?"

William rises to his feet, as though he doesn't wish to say this while sitting. "Prime's not been giving the Decepticons a chance to surrender. Mearing doesn't want to threaten human lives, and he concurs."

That brings Prowl up short.

Blitzwing's execution wasn't been a fluke?

Primus, why are the reports so incomplete? It's as though Optimus is trying to hide the truth. Ratchet's so-called defection, the burials of the fallen, and now the fate of any located Decepticons.

Prowl has never held much faith in the possibility of Decepticons truly defecting, save for a select few. He's found it harder and harder over the years to not take the war personally, but to not give them the opportunity… It is a distinctly un-Prime-like choice. More like Optimus's brother in fact.

And isn't that a chilling line of thought in and of itself? That Optimus is acting so much like Megatron?

Another tick mark adds itself to the growing list in Prowl's processor. All the ways that Optimus has changed. All the decisions he's made that hold no logic or seem counter-productive.

"I see." Prowl sets his pad down, flattening his hand on the top of the crate. "What of arriving Decepticons?"

William won't look at him at all.

"We have a pretty good defense net now," he explains without really explaining. "Unless Prime can positively identify Autobots, Mearing doesn't take any chances."

A puff of frost races down Prowl's backstruts. Lack of evidence is not evidence of lack. And vice versa. Not having an Autobot signal doesn't mean that they aren't Autobots.

"Have we suffered any Autobot casualties as a result of this?" he questions, voice pained.

William breathes out. "As far as we know, not yet."

A small comfort. For all they know the next arrival will be hiding aboard a Decepticon spacecraft or will be disguised him as a Decepticon for the sake of survival. What if they are unable to transmit Autobot codes as they enter Earth's atmosphere?

Prowl and Sunstreaker are slagging lucky they weren't shot straight out of the sky upon their harried descent. And that their signal was stronger than Blitzwing's, for that matter.

"I will speak with Optimus," Prowl says, returning his attention to his datapads. "We are few and cannot afford to lose any one else. Especially not to a mistake that could be prevented."

The human makes a wordless noise of agreement in his throat. "You'll have to convince Mearing, too."

Prowl's sensory panels twitch. It's a tell. One that any mech who truly knew him would be able to recognize. But on this planet, the essentially meant Sunstreaker and perhaps his brother.

"I will factor that into my calculations," he offers.

"Might be a good idea to set up some kind of beacon, too," William suggests. "There are plenty of remote areas in the United States where human casualties would either be at a minimum or nonexistent."

A beacon. The colonel has a point. Even if it drew Decepticon and Autobot alike, with the minimized casualties, Prowl wouldn't have to work so hard to convince Mearing.

"Excellent suggestion," Prowl acknowledges. "I shall start searching for an appropriate location immediately."

William dusts off his hands and approaches the edge of the crate. "Good luck. I'd suggest North Dakota, but honestly, who the frag wants to go there?"

Prowl only half-watches as the human nimbly climbs back down, once again proving a sense of familiarity. The rest of Prowl's concentration is reserved for assimilating the new data William has provided, adding it to a file that's growing with disturbing speed. He also diverts a portion of his processing to the colonel's suggestion. Frankly, it's surprising that Optimus hasn't thought of a beacon already.

Then again, Prime hasn't seemed to spare much time for rational thought as of late.

o0o0o

Prowl's world settles into a routine.

A dull routine to be truthful but a relatively peaceful one. If he doesn't count the infrequent Decepticon sightings, immediately followed by a prompt dispatch of Autobots and NEST agents. Only once does Prowl accompany them on such a mission.

After watching the humans flush out the obviously under-energized mech and then witnessing Roadbuster run him down and put a laser through his spark, Prowl hasn't the interest in attending another. Offlining an enemy in the midst of battle is one thing. These feel too much like executions, and Prowl's logic circuits most certainly do not approve.

Luckily, Optimus prefers him on base, accessible, hooked into the human's database and working on upwards of thirty scenarios at any given time. Not to mention his usual duties involve in assisting Mearing and maintaining their supplies, a task which was once Ratchet's.

Days pass. And then weeks.

There is no sign of their medic. No other arrivals, Autobot or Decepticon, and even Mearing has backed off from her outrageous requests.

Leadfoot has managed to engineer a solar collector, one that harvests barely enough for a small cube of energon daily, but it's better than what they refine from natural fuels. Honestly, Prowl doesn't remember what real energon tastes like. He's survived on battle rations for so long, he doesn't think he could process anything more.

Dino spends a lot of time staring up at the sky, especially at night. Searching the stars and waiting – hoping – for some kind of sign from his brother.

Sideswipe is Sideswipe. Sunstreaker, while refusing to warm to this planet and its inhabitants, hasn't caused any obvious trouble. It's almost a miracle. Prowl actually finds Sunstreaker's good behavior to be unsettling. But trying to explain that to someone else only results in baffled looks.

Routine, he supposes, is a good thing. Peace is much better than war, but Prowl can't shake the feeling something's not-quite-right. He cannot relax. He cannot settle. He feels as though he's waiting for the next assault.

Speaking with Prime does nothing to allay his disquietude. If Prowl were a different mech, he might admit that instead, Optimus' presence seems to exacerbate his unease.

Speak of the Prime...

Optimus registers on his sensors long before he announces himself, and Prowl carefully saves his current work on the off-chance Optimus requires that he leave his makeshift office. It doesn't happen often, but with their leader as of late, there's a first time for everything. Prowl can no longer accurately anticipate what he will do.

"Are you busy?" Prime's field is curious, expression open and teasing.

Prowl's sensory panels hike higher. "No busier than I am at any given time," he responds truthfully. "Has something happened?"

"No." Prime wanders around the tiny space that Prowl has attempted to make his own with limited success. He simply doesn't have the supplies or the means for a proper office. "I do have another assignment for you to look over, however."

Inwardly, Prowl groans. Not another favor for the humans? He is quite weary of sending his Autobots out as though they are hired thugs.

"Of course."

Prime circles back toward him and offers a data pad. "This may be unsettling at first, but rest assured, it's in everyone's best interest."

The unease grows. Something unfurls talons in his tanks and claws at the inside.

Prowl powers on the pad and scans the contents. Only for his spark to stutter, ice slushing through his lines.

"Are you... I cannot..." Prowl shakes his head. "Optimus, you surely do not mean for us to go through with this?"

Prime noisily lets out air and clasps his wrists behind his frame. "Unfortunately, yes. Director Mearing brings up a valid point. While we may be uncertain of Ratchet's motives, the Decepticons are clearly a threat."

"It's been half a year," Prowl argues. "We have seen no trace of Ratchet or the Seekers. They haven't attacked nor had we heard any rumors of mysterious thefts. How do we even know they are still on-planet?"

Prime brushes aside his words easily. "How could they have left? Not even we are capable of that at the moment."

Prowl presses his lipplates together; he fights to keep his panels from retracting. Prime means for them to hunt down Ratchet, Drift, and the Seekers. Despite the fact they have confirmed nothing about Ratchet's motivations. Hunt them down and no doubt execute them to the last spark. Just as they have all the Decepticons hiding out on Earth. Regardless of what they were doing at the time.

"We have no evidence that they are a threat," Prowl states, hoping that his Prime will see reason. "More so, I wouldn't have any idea where to begin. I am still unfamiliar with this planet."

Prime unlocks an arm and taps the datapad with one finger. "I don't intend for you to produce results immediately, Prowl. I'm only looking for a plan of action."

Prowl's processor glitches. He's torn between two directives. His need to protect fellow Autobots versus his drive to obey his Prime. Ratchet is an Autobot, and Prowl still can't fathom a reason that he would willingly abandon them and become a Decepticon. He has always been one of the most loyal members of their inner circle, trusted to the core, Prime's personal medic.

How the Seekers got to him, manipulated him, Prowl is determined to find out. He wants answers. Yes, he would like to find Ratchet and the others. But not like this. There's no sign of intent to capture or interrogate. It's simple search and destroy.

Prowl's fingers tighten around the pad, drawing it closer to his frame. He stares at the uncompromising lines of text.

"And when I find them?" he asks, but he already knows the answer.

"We will deal with them accordingly."

What does that even mean?

Prowl ex-vents, tucking the datapad away so that he no longer has to look at it. His tank roils, and his cortex sends sharp jabs into his motor functions.

"Optimus, are you certain of this course of action?" he inquires and glances up at his leader, his Prime. His friend.

Prime tilts his helm. "The Seekers present a danger to human populaces. It's important that we locate them."

"Yes, that is only logical. However..." Prowl draws in a heavy intake. "Are you certain that Earth is where we should remain? That it is the best option for us, as Autobots?"

Prime flickers his optics. There is genuine confusion on his face. As if he can't fathom why Prowl is unhappy here. Why he doesn't like their treatment by the humans. Why he doesn't approve of hunting down his friends.

"You do not approve?" Prime asks in return, still puzzled.

But there is an odd glow to his optics, an off tilt to his helm. A tightening of his mouth at the corners. A foreboding expression that isn't like Prime at all and more resembles his brother.

It's even more unnerving than being told to hunt down Ratchet.

"I am only concerned," Prowl hastily corrects.

Far be it from him to approve or disapprove. Optimus, after all, has the matrix. He has been chosen by Primus himself. Surely, he knows what is best.

Surely.

"The humans don't seem to like or trust us despite the events of the past five years," the lieutenant explains further. "I merely worry that their tolerance for our presence will reach its limit sooner rather than later."

"They are a young species," Optimus agrees, and suddenly, he looks more like himself. Once again clasping a hand to Prowl's shoulder. "But I'm convinced of their hospitality. They have a right to be wary, suspicious even, which is why we must do everything in our power to be honest and forthright with them. To better cement our alliance and strengthen our ties."

Prowl isn't convinced. For all intents and purposes, Mearing is not willing to allow any possible defectors to live. Or anyone not completely with her for that matter. She grudgingly accepts the arrival of new Autobots and seems all too eager to destroy any others. All attempts on Prowl's part to contact someone higher in the American government have been thwarted, and he strongly suspects that should Prime learn of Prowl's efforts, he wouldn't approve.

"Then perhaps you could convince Mearing to let us build a more permanent base," Prowl pushes on. "The Decepticons are no longer a threat, and there are many sparsely populated areas on this planet where we could make a home."

"All in good time, old friend." Optimus squeezes his shoulder, field flaring with approval. "We still have much work to do until then."

Prowl's sensory panels twitch. He takes a step backward, Prime's hand sliding away. Much to his relief.

"I understand," he says, careful to keep his tone neutral. "I will begin analyzing this data at once. I should have a draft ready by the end of the week."

"Excellent. I'll look forward to it then."

Optimus leaves. Prowl doesn't watch him go.

It strikes him then that he honestly doesn't know what Prime spends most of the day doing. Recharge is obvious. He also participates in several missions regarding discovered Decepticons. Prowl has seen him in meetings with Mearing and other members of the government from time to time. But there are also times when Prowl doesn't know what Prime is doing or where.

That is… _worrisome_.

o0o0o

When the alarms go off, Prowl is startled. He disengages from several datapads and rockets to his pedes.

An attack?

He edges out of his tiny cubicle, scanners detecting the many humans who scurry about as busy as always. None of them look particularly frightened or alarmed, but the sirens keep blaring.

"Energon detectors have activated in Sector Fourteen," a monotonous tone announces over the PA system. "Autobots Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Leadfoot, report to ops immediately. Repeat: Energon detectors have activated in Sector Fourteen. Autobots Optimus Prime, Prowl, and Leadfoot report to ops immediately."

This can't be another matter of a Decepticon sighting. They don't bother to announce those with such urgency. Most of the time, Prowl doesn't even learn until after the fact.

Prowl hurries to ops, another warehouse located in the near-center of the base. The bay doors are wide open, and no one spares him a glance as he hurries to enter. Soldiers shout to each other, back and forth, across their assigned stations. Optimus is already inside, near to the main screens. One of the three sections show a location marked on a map, the second a live feed from Director Mearing's office, and the third appears to be video footage, obviously amateur, of two aircraft in the sky.

No. Not just any aircraft. Those are Cybertronians, their forms distinctly non-human in design, and one of them even has a large glyph painted on his plating. The first appears to be Seeker class, definitely warrior in origin, but the other is a flyer of a different frame type. Not Vosian. Perhaps Tarn.

"-answers, and I want them now!" Mearing's shrill demand pierces Prowl's audials.

He hurries toward the main console and screen, next to Optimus, and tries to take stock of the situation. Clearly, the two bots on the screen are the reason they've been summoned.

"I do apologize," Optimus replies to Mearing. "We have received no indication of new arrivals in the past month. Nor has our system detected any unauthorized landings."

The human woman's face twists with irritation. "They had to have come from somewhere, Prime. Maybe your defense net isn't as secure as you think it is."

Prowl's gaze whips toward his leader. Surely, he's not going to allow her to speak to him like that?

"There are many possible explanations," his Optimus concedes, making a vague gesture with his hand. "I'll assign someone to look at the grid. Right now, however, we should consider our handling of these mechs."

Mearing makes a disdainful noise. "Autobots or Decepticons? And make it quick. Because my boss has twitchy fingers, and they're getting closer to civilian populations."

Optimus shifts, glancing down at Prowl. "Do you recognize either of them?"

It takes a longer second than is logical for Prowl to stir from his shock. He shakes his helm.

"Not at first glance."

He steps closer to the screen, peering at the wobbling image and trying to make sense of the highly pixelated video capture. The two mechs on screen don't appear to be engaged in combat nor do they seem to have a destination. Their speed and pattern gives the suggestion of a pleasure flight, perhaps even an element of flirtation. Not that Prowl is all that educated on the peculiarities of flight-based mechs.

"The picture quality is too poor for a positive identification, Director," Optimus explains.

Behind them, Leadfoot strolls in with the other Wreckers on his heels. "It's pretty fraggin' obvious, isn't it, Prime? They have to be Decepticons."

"How would you know?" Mearing accuses, one finger adjusting the bridge of her glasses further up her nose.

Leadfoot forces a rev through his engine. "Autobots don't fly."

"Not entirely accurate," Prowl corrects before Mearing can get it in her head to start shooting and stop asking questions. "While the majority of us are ground vehicles and most Decepticons came from flight-class castes, there are exceptions on both sides of the faction lines."

Mearing huffs. "Are they or aren't they, Prime? I've got better things to do than debate this all day."

Prowl diverts more of his processing power in an attempt to identify the mechs. They aren't of Silverbolt's gestalt. Of that, he is certain. The Aerialbots are the only Autobot Seekers for that matter. At least, the only ones still thought functioning. Which means one of them is a Decepticon and the other must be by default.

Except...

Prowl's optics cycle wider. "Freeze that image," he barks out, overriding whatever anyone else is saying. "Can you define the quality at all?"

"I can try," the soldier at the console says.

Prowl doesn't miss the way he subtly edges away from the Cybertronians in the room either. His stress pheromones have spiked considerably. Perhaps the poor human should consider a career change.

"Prowl?" Optimus prompts.

He vents carefully. "One of them is a Decepticon. You can see his insignia on his wings when he banks left or right. The other..."

The paused image on screen magnifies by thirty percent and then clarifies. The darker Seeker, Decepticon insignia's bright purple on his wing tips, is quickly identified as a warrior class. Maybe even once under Starscream's command. The other though isn't a Seeker. He's not even a Decepticon.

There's only one Autobot Prowl can recall with a frame similar to a Seeker's but whose base support is actually built upon a ground frame. Tracks' caretakers were high class, as high as Mirage, and only wanted the best, the most unique for their Allsparked heir. They wanted him to have the best of both worlds without all the twitchy coding that having a Seeker frame required. Tracks is a triple-changer in everything but name.

-Dino, report to ops,- Prowl orders over a private comm.

If anyone can confirm Tracks' identity, it is Dino. Standard education for Towers bots required that they be aware of anyone at or above their station.

Dino's response is less than subordinate. -I'm scheduled for recharge right now.-

When the frag did they start scheduling recharge times?

Prowl frowns, orbital ridges flattening. -This will only take a moment.-

-I suppose.-

If it were possible to transmit resignation across a comm, Dino manages it. There is also evidence of a Sunstreaker-class sulk. Sometimes, Dino is a Towers' mech to the core.

Prowl turns back to the others.

"The other is an Autobot," he finishes, and the prickles of Prime and Mearing's stares are annoying against his armor. "If I am correct, his designation is Tracks."

He doesn't voice the obvious question. Such as, what in the name of Cybertron is Tracks doing with a Decepticon?

The soldier returns the image back to a real-time feed. The two mechs are still flying together, either unaware that they are being observed or not caring. The Decepticon tips left and right in midair. His wings waggle at Tracks, who does an acrobatic loop and cuts through a thick cloud.

The image fizzles in and out. Static and low-quality worsen the view.

"Surveillance drone has been dispatched," a female soldier announces. "ETA, five minutes."

At least, they'll be able to get a clearer view. Perhaps the Decepticon will have a designation etched in the glyphs on his wings. Some of the older Seekers do.

"Why is an Autobot flying with a Decepticon?" Mearing demands. "Is he another traitor?"

Prowl's sensory panels stiffen, now arched high behind his shoulders.

"We don't-"

"Director Mearing," another human interrupts. "They're approaching Spokane. At their present speed, they'll be over populations within ten minutes."

Her eyes narrow, fingers rapping noisily on her desk. Her chair squeaks as she leans to the side, free hand grasping the phone to her left.

"I'm calling in air support."

"That may be wise," Optimus concedes and inclines his head. There's a subtle shift to his stance then.

Prowl's vocalizer glitches, words failing him and emerging as discombobulated clicks. Behind him, Dino stomps into ops, field a whirl of irritation and fatigue.

"Well?" But his gaze shoots past both of his superiors to the shaky camera footage. "Oh. Is that Tracks?"

Prowl's shoulders slump. "That is my assumption, yes. One that you confirmed."

"What the frag is he doing with a Decepticon?" Dino scowls.

"That's what I want to know," Mearing snaps, phone cradled between her ear and shoulder. "Clearly, both of them are a threat."

"Drone is now within scanning distance," a technician announces, remarkably calm for all of the madness going on above his head and on the screen. "Police have been dispatched to clear citizens from the area."

Meaning whoever is supplying this shaky cell-phone footage is about to find themselves escorted from the scene. All the better. The less chance of human casualties,. The more likely Mearing will listen to reason, however small that chance might be.

The image onscreen switches from the cell footage to shots taken by the much more advanced surveillance drone. Prowl's suspicions prove accurate as identifying glyphs are now visible on the Seeker's wings, just below his faction symbols. Dreadwing. It isn't a designation familiar to Prowl, but he supposes it doesn't matter to Mearing or Optimus. All that matters is his faction.

"I don't know the circumstances of their arrival on this planet, but the fact that they haven't attempted to make contact with us is telling," Prime offers gravely. "We have made no secret of our own location after all."

"That's hardly cause to shoot them out of the sky," Prowl counters, forcing his vocalizer to work, trying to reason with madness.

Prime doesn't even glance in his direction. "It's cause for suspicion, and that is reason enough for me."

"Optimus, he's an Autobot!"

Prowl's vocals are resounding, surprising himself with their volume. The sheer contention in his tone.

Prime doesn't flinch, nor falter. Not even at his second-in-command's unusual behavior.

"One knowingly associating with a Decepticon."

Prowl's hands curl into trembling fists. His sensory panels hike up higher than he can ever remember keeping them.

"Dreadwing may be a defector," he argues. "We can't preclude that possibility."

"Nor can we take that risk." Prime gestures toward the screen with a casual flick of his wrist. "They are over civilian populations."

"Shooting them down is no safer than letting them be," Prowl insists, energy field swelling, unable to be contained. "We must at least attempt to contact them. Tracks has always proven himself loyal. We have to give him the benefit of the doubt!"

"Tch." Leadfoot's mouth components twist with a sneer, one pede stomping the ground. "He's a Towers mech. You can't trust them any further than you can throw them."

Dino gives the Wrecker a sidelong glare. "I have been nothing but loyal." He crosses his arms over his chassis.

"Don't see where you have much of a choice right now," Roadbuster retorts.

He steps up beside his fellow Wrecker, and Topspin quickly joins him. The three glare heatedly at Dino, whose plates clamp tightly to his frame.

"Enough," Prime orders, tone harsh and sharp, cutting through the tension. "We are not questioning anyone's loyalties at this time."

Prowl shakes his helm. "Yes, we are. There's an Autobot out there, right now, and you are suggesting that we fire upon him!"

Prime's optics cycle down, energy field heavy and suppressing.

"Prowl," he admonishes. "We are no longer in a position where our assessment of risk is the tipping point. We must consider the safety of the humans above all else."

What about them? What about their own kind? Are they worth less than the thousands upon millions upon billions of humans infesting this planet? Less than beings who slaughter each other callously and without thought or care daily?

Helplessness rises up and crashes over Prowl in pounding waves. All he can see is Hound's faceplate in front of him, the flickering optics, the faltering ventilations.

"It's a war, old friend," Optimus intones, his voice gentling by any definition but Prowl's own. "Sometimes, sacrifices must be made."

He turns back to the screen. Turns his back to Prowl and all the other Autobots in the room.

"Director Mearing, if you wish to preserve human life, the time to fire is now."

Mearing sits back in her chair. Her face is a mask, but Prowl can see the triumph in her eyes.

"I'm three steps ahead of you. Raptors are inbound and will make contact in less than a minute."

She was going to fire anyway. No matter what Optimus said, Mearing intended to shoot down those mechs from the beginning. Questioning Optimus was a formality.

And he's allowing it. Continues to allow it. Doesn't even call her on the lie.

Prowl stares, aghast. "Optimus..."

He's powerless as the Decepticon on-screen suddenly yaws to the right. Perhaps his sensors are keener than those of Tracks, and he has already detected the danger. Tracks startles and veers in the opposite directions, and a mere half-second later, a missile explodes between them.

The two whip around to face their attackers, but strangely, they don't fire back. They evade with maneuvers acrobatic enough to make Powerglide deeply envious. Work in a tandem that suggests they have flown together for quite some time.

And then, Tracks miscalculates. He swings around to avoid one jet, only to head straight for a trap, a cross-fire.

Prowl's tanks lurch. His spark flutters. His hands curl into fists.

No. Not again. He can't stand here and watch another Autobot offline.

Weapons fire from somewhere off-screen lights up the transmission. One of the jets goes down in a hail of laserfire but not before the human pilot ejects safely. Another jet careens away, spewing heavy smoke.

The human chatter becomes background noise to Prowl's audials. His every focus is on the screen. This new arrival Prowl knows, both from the files Optimus gave him, and because he's spent many a battle accounting for this Seeker's unusual talent.

Skywarp.

He appears in the footage briefly, flitting in and out of the tiny battle. He easily evades the human jets and shoots them down one by one. Not a single pilot fails to eject, Prowl clinically notes. But then, as suddenly as he appears, Skywarp is gone again.

Tracks and Dreadwing bump wing-tips, a gesture that suggests reassurance. Familiarity. Companionship.

Warning sirens shriek through ops from the surveillance drone itself. There's a flash of bright light, and then, the live feed goes dark and staticky.

Skywarp took out the drone.

Mearing's shouting now. Demanding that someone give her answers, get eyes back on the scene. More aircraft are dispatched. Prime asks the Wreckers to investigate, see what they can find.

And William is looking up at Prowl with something akin to pity. Although that doesn't make much sense at all.

"Prowl, I'm going to need you on this," Prime says, his vocals muffled and staticky in his lieutenant's audials. "Possible trajectories, intentions, base locations, anything you can give me with the available data."

"Yes, sir," he replies on automatic. But the rest of the world is dim, seen through a veil, a haze of utter loss.

"If anyone dies, Optimus, I'm blaming you," Director Mearing threatens, fingernails rapping on her desk. "This is what you're here for."

"We will stop them," Prime replies gravely.

Prowl turns on a pede and flees. No one either notices or cares. Prime probably assumes he's rushing to his office. Rushing to compile and collate and devise a means to track down their fellow Cybertronians.

Outside, the air seems no fresher, the atmosphere no lighter. Something dark and nagging clings to Prowl's spark. His tanks lurch again and again, and the thought of returning to his makeshift office, to the uncomfortable crates and stacks of datapads, makes something inside physically recoil. Wind whips across his frame, and only then does he notice how much his armor has clamped down, protecting him on reflexive impulse.

He needs... He can't...

Distance.

Prowl turns away from ops and the main warehouse where his office sits surrounded by assigned recharge zones and a makeshift medcorner. He just needs a moment to himself.

o0o0o

"Ratchet tried to argue with Prime once, too," William says.

Prowl startles. He hadn't realized he was followed. He now stands on the distant edges of their base, between two light posts, where it's dark and silent. Then again, human bodies are so much quieter than the hissing pistons and hydraulics of a Cybertronian.

He looks down at the colonel. But William's gaze is focused elsewhere, his words almost nonchalant.

"He wanted to at least give the Decepticons a chance to surrender," the human continues, voice strangely soft. "He kept hoping that maybe this peace could actually be peaceful. And I think every time we shot a 'Con out of the sky, something broke in him."

Prowl studies him. "What are you saying, William?"

The colonel finally looks up. "You don't have to tell me. I can see it. The doubt. The hesitation. You don't know what to do. What to believe in anymore."

Prowl feels himself freeze. It's like William has glimpsed into his very processor. An odd sensation indeed.

"Is that what Ratchet told you?" he poses, but his thoughts are reeling.

The human's shoulders lift and then drop. "Most of it I figured out for myself. Some of it, I made him tell me. It's what Hide would've wanted."

This is yet another example of his familiarity with Ironhide. Had his old comrade really formed such a close bond with an organic? It seems so farfetched, and yet, having met this particular human, it also isn't.

Prowl watches William for a long moment. Looks at his posture, the tilt of his head, the shadows in his eyes.

"Did he tell you he was defecting?" he asks, and it is softer now. Voice pitched low.

William's gaze sharpens. His mouth becomes a flat, grim line.

"Ratchet is _not_ a defector. Or a Decepticon." He makes an emphatic gesture. "He's an Autobot."

Prowl's vents are stuttered and exasperated. "Then why did he leave with them?" he all but demand but stops himself from saying more.

William sighs.

"He couldn't do it anymore. If I had to guess." William sighs a second time and drops his gaze, running a hand over his hair. "Betrayal is a double-edged sword, and Prime struck the first blow."

Words fail Prowl. He simply stares. It's all he can do.

After all this time of William claiming nothing, all of the sudden he has a keen insight into what Ratchet had been thinking. Why he had done what he did.

But it seems William can read Prowl just as well. Even without any words.

"Do you know why I'm telling you this now? Why I waited?" he questions, and his eyes are far too keen.

Prowl's mouth components work, but his vocalizer produces no sound. He shakes his helm.

"It's because I know what you're thinking," William replies and turns his entire body to face Prowl, unafraid despite having to look up several feet. "I know you're thinking that you've reached your limit. I know that leaving has crossed your mind. Even if you know you have nowhere to go."

His sensory panels flatten against his back. He feels his optics flicker. Once. Then again.

"Are you attempting to stop me?"

It's almost harsh now, and really, when did he lose control of himself? When did he become so emotional? Is this what their Prime has wrought? Is this what happens after so much loss? After Jazz and Hound and everything else?

"Not my place." The colonel's lips curl with a bitter grin. "All I'm gonna say is that North Dakota is nice this time of year. And that third shift change is just before dawn. In case, you know, you feel the need to inspect the troops or something."

His tone is flippant and doesn't match his words.

Prowl stares at him again.

"Why are you assisting me?" the lieutenant asks, but before the last syllable passes his vocalizer, he suspects he already knows how the human will answer.

And he is right.

The colonel looks up at him, eyes haunted by an emotion that Prowl has seen all too often. And most recently in Sunstreaker's optics.

"It's what Hide would do, and I owe it to him to see this to the end." His hands go into his pockets, and he rolls his shoulders. "Whatever that end might be."

Prowl's frame slumps. "How can I abandon the Autobots? How can I even consider turning my back on my Prime?"

It isn't so much a question as a demand. From William. From himself.

"I can't answer that," William replies, shaking his head and turning back to the night sky and the multitude of stars. "But I do know that you wouldn't even be considering it without good reason."

He is right, of course, but that doesn't make Prowl's contemplations any easier to bear. He feels like a traitor, and his loyalty codes are giving his processor fits. He took the coding upon himself willingly long ago, and it has become fragmented over time, but still...

Betrayal is a double-edged sword.

Can he really consider Prime's behavior the first blow?

Prowl hangs his helm, hand lifting to touch the small compartment on his right hip. More than a half-dozen Autobot sigils rest inside. Sometimes, if he concentrates, he can still detect faint flickers of those who once carried them. Right now though, Hound's is the only one still strong enough to sense through the metal.

Optimus let Hound offline when he could have been saved. He allowed one of his mechs to die at the whims of their so-called allies. Should that not have been his first clue?

But is it enough?

"Sometimes," William says, and it's so soft that Prowl has to dial up his audials to actually hear him. "You can't fix things. Sometimes, there's no cure or miracle. Sometimes... giving up is the only option left."

He looks at Prowl for a moment longer. Searching his face for something, but Prowl isn't certain what. Finally, William gives a simple nod and leaves.

Prowl can only track his footsteps, the crackle of heavy boots over gravel. He says nothing else. He can't even offer the human his gratitude.

o0o0o

Prowl doesn't stir until dawn is a mere fifteen minutes away. It's taken him all night to

come to a conclusion, and he still isn't certain it is the best path to take.

It is, however, the path he's going to choose.

He has no belongings, nothing that he considers of value. Anything he cannot bear to lose is either attached to his frame or something he can't bring along.

Sunstreaker is going to be furious. Something that Prowl muses over as he sticks to the shadows and quietly makes his escape. He's using the same path he'd taken before. That one disastrous attempt to seek Ratchet alone, which now seems so long ago.

William is right. Shift change at dawn is the best time to slip into the silence with no one the wiser.

He should've said goodbye, Prowl thinks, staying in his root mode for now as it is quieter than the engine of his alt-mode. He wants to draw as little attention to himself, so he pulls in his energy field, puts his systems on silent mode, and even powers down the glow of his optics. All neat little tricks Jazz taught him once upon a time. When they were both young and foolish, flush with finding a kindred spark despite their differences of class and make.

Perhaps though on his way to North Dakota, Prowl can take a detour. He can swing to the East Coast, pay his respects to all the Autobot brethren left to rust beneath the ocean.

And there's a strange sensation in his chassis, as though several layers of grit have been washed away. His pedes are lighter; his spark is less constricted.

What he's doing, Prowl's not really sure. He's leaving. He's going to find Ratchet. He's going to find answers. He's going to do... _something_.

Prowl will figure it out when he gets there. Just as Jazz would if this were his plan, and maybe that's why the lack of knowing is strangely comfortable. Prowl planned. Jazz improvised. Together, they'd been nigh unstoppable. Now, Prowl will have to do it for both of them.

But for now, he's going to drive. Put rubber to the asphalt, feel the wind over his plates, and try not to let the weight of the world drag him down. Only if for the drive.

The sun starts to rise, turning the horizon a wash of pinks and oranges that are caused by pollutants in the atmosphere. Yet still considered beautiful. Strange how these humans think.

In the silence, Prowl hears an engine rumble. He pauses, turns around, and can't decide if he's surprised or not by the fact Sunstreaker is less than a block behind him. If Prowl is going to slip by the human's security net without being caught, he'll have to make this quick.

Sunstreaker shifts out of his alt-mode, optics focused on Prowl alone.

"I knew I'd find you here," he says, rocking on his wheeled pedes just as his brother does. "You're leaving."

It's a statement. Not an accusation.

"Yes."

The warrior huffs and flickers his optics. "I'd ask why, but I can already guess." His voice is an odd mix of exasperation and fondness, but then, it goes cold. "It's not right. It hasn't been since we got here, and I don't think it's ever gonna be right."

Prowl closes the distance between them. One hand goes on Sunstreaker's shoulder plating and rejoices in the fact Sunstreaker doesn't flinch from him. The trust between them remains.

"No, it's not, but it's better that I go. I can't stay here. You and I both know that."

Sunstreaker lets out a gust of air, but he doesn't shake off Prowl's hand. Instead, he leans into the touch. Still reacting to the novelty of a mech not his brother who would burn worlds for him.

Prowl gives his shoulder a squeeze. "I couldn't have asked for a better partner," he admits because it needs to be said and Sunstreaker needs to hear it. Especially now.

The smile he receives could hardly be counted as one, but considering the state of grief and anger that's been hovering over both of them, he'll take what he can get.

"Prowl-"

"Stay with Sideswipe," he says firmly and before the offer can even be made. "Stay with your brother."

"Is it an order?" Sunstreaker asks despite himself.

But Prowl doesn't rise to the bait.

"A request. From a dear friend. Please stay. He'll need you."

The smile fades. "I… Yes, sir."

Prowl smooths his fingers over golden armor for a second and then releases him. He very slowly withdraws the gentle mingling of their energy fields. Allowing himself one final moment in such familiarity and fighting down the urge to hold on and never let go.

"You don't have to call me that anymore. Not that you ever really did," he adds, and that too is fond.

"You're still an Autobot," Sunstreaker grits out, and Prowl doesn't miss the way his hands are clenched at his sides. "No matter what anyone else, mech or human, is going to say."

"Your faith in me is worth more than you know." Prowl takes a step back, aware of the time ticking down, the swift approach of dawn.

Sunstreaker revs his engine. There are a thousand things on his face. Things Prowl knows that he desperately wants to say. But really, by this point, there are few secrets between them.

"Keep that brother of yours in line."

It earns him a chuckle. Just as he knew it would.

"Give me something hard." Sunstreaker gives a dismissive wave.

Before Prowl can convince himself to react with soppy abandon, he turns and drops into his alt-mode, chasing the disappearing shadows. He'll be cutting it close, but he reasons it doesn't really matter. It won't be long before the humans realize he's gone, though it may take some time for them to understand that it's more than an unauthorized jaunt off-base.

Sunstreaker doesn't follow, and while Prowl aches at the loss, he's glad for it all the same. If there is one thing Prowl is going to accomplish, it'll be keeping the brothers together.

Now, he can only hope to find Ratchet.

To North Dakota it is.

* * *

a/n: And that's the end of Prowl's part. Coming up: Thundercracker, Optimus, and Will Lennox. I'm not sure what order they are going to come though.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.


	11. Will Lennox

******Title: War Without End - Will Lennox  
Universe: Bayverse, post-DotM, canon-compliant  
Characters: Will Lennox, Optimus Prime, Sideswipe, Robert Epps  
Rating: T  
Warnings: mentions of character death, angst  
Desc:** Will's seen a lot of things. Some heroic. Some terrible. But he's never been ashamed to be human until now.

* * *

Not for the first time does Will consider putting in for a transfer. Or a voluntary discharge.

How many times has he filled out the paperwork, lingering over every line, staring at every date and signature? How many times has he lain awake in the barracks, thinking of Sarah and Annabelle? Of Ironhide?

And how many times has he ripped up the papers and thrown them away, only to request a fresh set a week or two later?

The base is quiet as of late. Too quiet.

Will remembers when the Autobots first arrived, how much noise and bluster there was then. Military leaders shouting, politicians turning red in the face, the Autobots patient in the brunt of it all. Optimus dignified and enduring, sharing information and refusing to give weapons tech.

Skids and Mudflap used to get in all kinds of trouble. There was something glitched in their processors, Ratchet had said, something he couldn't fix. A word that Ratchet had hissed and never repeated.

_Shockwave_.

Then, there was Sideswipe. Forever racing around. He seemed to have a need for speed.

And Bee played music at all volumes, at least when he was there. He wanted to spend most of his time with Sam.

Arcee and her sisters were quiet, like Optimus.

Ratchet was always tinkering with something, deep in one project or another, fitfully attempting to distill better energon.

Ironhide was always sparring or practicing or targeting or...

It still hurts to think about his guardian. His friend. His partner.

Memories.

It's the memories that bring Lennox back, again and again, to the paperwork. He could so easily walk away. No one could argue that he hadn't done his duty, that he hadn't played his part. No one would protest. Mearing would probably rejoice and quickly encourage someone to take his spot that'd be more malleable.

Would the Autobots even notice?

Maybe Sideswipe. He's the only one who seems even remotely unchanged, happier even, with the arrival of Sunstreaker. His brother, his twin, half his spark.

Will's not even supposed to know that much, but Ironhide was surprisingly chatty once he knew someone. Besides, Will knows what a person looks like when he or she has some demons to exorcise. Autobots might be alien robots from outer space, but some things are universal. Ironhide's facial structure didn't really leave much flexibility for expression, but there are other ways to understand.

Will's military background pales in comparison to Hide's, but there's enough there that he understands. He _gets_ why Hide's optics sometimes dimmed, why his posture sagged. Why he would sometimes find his friend standing at the edge of the farm, staring up into a dark sky.

He can't imagine what it must be like to fight a war for millennia. To watch as, bit by bit, mech by mech, their entire civilization withers away.

The base is so quiet now.

Ratchet is gone. And with him, Drift.

And now, Will has to tell Optimus that another one of his Autobots has gone missing. Will guessed that Prowl would soon take Ratchet's route. It's why he had hinted where Prowl should go.

Will won't be surprised either if one day, Sideswipe and Sunstreaker disappear as well.

There's something broken in the Autobots, and Optimus Prime stands at the core of it.

Whatever madness had begun the war, had infected the Decepticons and set them off on their deadly quest for freedom or power or whatever, has infiltrated to the spark of the Autobots. Or maybe, the madness has been there all along. Optimus is, after all, Megatron's kin.

Not that Will's supposed to know _that_ either.

He finds Optimus on the edge of the base, staring out toward the ruins of Chicago. His battle-scarred armor is painted in the shadows of the sunset. Standing there, Optimus looks regal and proud, a strong survivor of an endless war.

It's only when Optimus turns to greet him that the flat glow in his optics makes Will's insides crawl. He can't really explain it. He doesn't sense energy fields like the bots can. Nor can he tell with a scan that something's wrong.

He knows, however, to the very fiber of his being that something is broken inside Optimus. Will despairs that it can't ever be fixed.

Ratchet hadn't been able to after all.

"Colonel," Optimus rumbles in greeting, lowering himself down. He always does that more than any of the others, and it somehow comes off as unintentionally demeaning. "Were you searching for me?"

Will's lips pull into a strained smile. "You're not a hard mech to find, Optimus." The half-a-dozen papers he's carrying feel all too heavy. "Got some bad news for you."

"It seems that is the only news to be found as of late." Optimus breathes out – ventilating, Ironhide had called out. He lowers himself down fully, sitting upon the pavement.

And isn't that the truth?

Will breathes in and out himself.

"Prowl's missing," he says, though he finds it a bit strange that he's the one to tell Prime and that the mech hasn't noticed for himself. "No one's seen him since before shift change, and he hasn't reported for duty."

Optimus' gaze tilts downward. He rests one arm over a bended knee.

"I see."

There's an evident pause. Will knows that look, that distant flicker of a mech's optics. Optimus must be contacting some of the others.

"He isn't responding to the comm," Optimus says or narrates rather. "None of the others have seen him either." The mechanisms of his audial spin and twitch. "You haven't been able to locate him with our search net?"

"No."

Will suspects Prowl is far too intelligent to be caught by a simple spark scan or locator beacon. No doubt he's accounted for both methods.

"He is certainly off-base," Optimus Prime states but then falls into silence again.

Will honestly doesn't know what to say. It's a fine line he walks, between covering Prowl's tracks and pretending to be equally concerned about the tactician's disappearance.

"Would you like to organize a search party?"

Will shifts from foot to foot, but Optimus doesn't seem to notice. The mech lets out air again, a rattling and gusty sound that hints of poor maintenance.

"No, I don't believe that will be necessary." He rises up. "I suspect Prowl left of his own volition."

_Aren't you worried?_ Will wants to shout. _Do you even care? Does it bother you that your troops are vanishing into the night? _

"Why?"

Optimus looks down at Will. "I don't know, Colonel. It's unlike him to abandon his post, but…" He pauses, helm lifting to peer up at the sky. "The same could be said of Ratchet." He makes a gesture that Will can't quite interpret. "Have you informed Director Mearing?"

"No." Will isn't the best of actors; he can't hide the distaste in his tone. "I didn't know if there was anything to report."

"She won't be pleased," Optimus states and drops his gaze once more. "We can do nothing for Prowl, Colonel. Yet, there's still work to be done."

Will blinks. He's thrown off balance by the sudden shift in conversational tone.

"Work?"

"Prowl's disappearance is regrettable. He didn't finish the task I assigned him." Optimus reaches for a panel on his hip and pulls free a datapad, Autobot-sized. "I do, however, have a plan that is half-completed. It should be enough for your tacticians to work with."

Words fail. Will works his jaw soundlessly.

"A plan?"

He feels like a parrot, only able to repeat what Optimus tells him and nothing more.

"Yes." Optimus' fingers drag over the screen, calling up some kind of file, and then William's Blackberry beeps as it receives the document. "Finding Ratchet and the Decepticons was Prowl's task."

"You..." Will falters, inhales to control himself, and strongly hopes that he's wrong. "You ordered him to devise a plan to track down Ratchet?"

Optimus nods, a humming sound emerging from his chassis. "Director Mearing was concerned about the presence of unknown Decepticons, including the ones who most recently escaped. It's her opinion – and one I share – that they are all in hiding with Ratchet. This cannot go unchallenged."

His stomach drops to his ankles even as his eyes widen.

This isn't right. Ratchet was one of his soldiers for longer than humans have had writing. Ratchet is his comrade. His friend.

It isn't… It isn't _right_.

But he knows without having to ask that it's been on Mearing's urging. Damn that woman to hell.

Still speechless, Will pulls out his Blackberry, accessing the file. It's large, and a quick glance through confirms its identity. Though if this is what Prowl considers half-complete, Will is impressed. Not that he'd trust any of it since it was made by the same mech who'd just hightailed it out of here to join Ratchet and his merry band of miscreants plus Drift.

"This will be a lot of help," Will forces out instead and bites his tongue to keep in what he really wants to say. He wants to put this off as long as possible.

And he knows that wish as he might, he'll be in this job for a long time yet.

After all, if he quits, who will take his place? Who will be there to help divert attention and resources away from hunting down Ratchet and the others?

Who will be the voice for the Autobots?

"I'm glad to hear it." Prime tucks away his own datapad and offers Will a smile that feels completely out of place. "Your acceptance of us, Colonel Lennox, has always been greatly valued. I, for one, am proud to have made your acquaintance."

Will feels sick to his very core. His stomach churns, threatening to expel his very nutritious breakfast of stale coffee and an equally stale doughnut.

"Thank you," he forces the words out. "You guys have done a lot for us. I'm just doing my part."

Optimus nods again. "Earth is our home now. Our future. We will do whatever it takes to defend it." He pauses, helm tilting. "If you'll excuse me, Director Mearing is requesting a meeting."

Demanding more like. Will has never heard Mearing politely request anything.

"Sure, Optimus. Good luck."

Humor fills the large mech's vocals. "Sometimes, I am quite certain I shall need it."

Will turns, watching Optimus head back to the command center. Mearing is supposed to be in Washington the majority of the time, but as of late, she's been lingering around Chicago to the consternation of Will's soldiers. The Autobots, save Optimus, despise her. Will's noticed a distinct lack of their presence whenever Mearing is here.

Sighing, Will contemplates the file on his Blackberry. Technically, he should be contacting General Morshower and letting his CO decide what to do from there. Will finds himself reluctant.

He wants to protect himself and his family. He wants to keep helping Ratchet, though he doesn't give a slag about the Decepticons Ratchet saved.

Those papers on his desk are looking more and more appealing by the minute.

o0o0o

The base is quiet. Chicago is starting to rebuild, inch by inch, street by street. Will reflects that humans are remarkably resilient. We can always rebuild.

Cybertron, however, is beyond saving.

He thinks of the document he just sent to Morshower and the phone call he just completed. Even the general sounded startled at Mearing's demand and Optimus' compliance. But the both of them have met the quota of risks they can take in the breadth of their career. Will doesn't so much as hint to his own acts of near-treason, but he can hear it, hear the indecision in his commanding officer's voice.

General Morshower has always been on their side. Even so, Will dares not trust him with Ratchet's fate.

Will wants nothing more than to go home. He misses Sarah and Annabelle. He wants to kiss his wife, hold his baby girl, and forget everything. Retirement is looking more and more appealing. For all that the war is over, he knows he's fighting a losing battle.

The sound of weapons fire pierces the silence though. Will orientates toward it, the reverberating booms indicating Cybertronian weapons as opposed to human-made artillery. He hasn't heard this sound in so long, it seems.

There's paperwork on his desk. His job is more and more administrative these days. Other members of NEST go into the field with the Autobots. Soldiers that Mearing feels can be trusted more. Or so Will assumes. She has yet to come right out and say what she thinks of Will Lennox and the others who've been through all major Autobot-Decepticon clashes.

Will's feet turn toward the weapons fire anyway. He's not sure this is a job still worth saving. He's not sure what or who he's supposed to be protecting anymore.

He doesn't need so many guesses as to who's test-firing their weapons. Though the fact it's Sideswipe does come as some surprise. He always figured the silver mech for preferring his blades over his blasters. Though he has seen that Sideswipe can be deadly with either.

Sides must know he's there, watching. But he says or does nothing, barely shifting as he continues a steady barrage at a set of targets on the far side of the river, set up in the ruins of Chicago that won't be rebuilt for years to come. Will can't see them hit, but he does see the puffs of ash and fire that rise up in their wake.

These are the mechs Mearing has no problem provoking. Will is quite certain there's something loose in that woman's brain. Thinking she'd be able to make the Decepticons see reason because the Autobots would back down. Foolish, foolish woman.

Silence falls. Will's ears ring.

He tilts his head, looking up at Sideswipe. The mech keeps examining one of his blasters.

"Nice shooting."

"I won't ever be as accurate as Blue," Sideswipe says, but he tilts a grin down at Will. "But I'm still slagging good."

"Blue?"

The grin fades back into a neutral expression. Sideswipe's concentration returns to his weapon.

"Bluestreak," he clarifies without looking down again. "He was an Autobot, a sharpshooter. The best any of us had ever seen."

"Was?"

"He's dead. Gone. Like all the rest of us." Sideswipe prods at one of the mechanisms in his blaster, popping it loose and frowning over it. "Maybe."

Will crosses his arms. It's getting late, the sun setting and a cold wind settling in. Winter in Chicago is never comfortable.

"You don't know?"

"He was on Sunstreaker's team," Sideswipe replies and shoves the piece back into his blaster. There's an audible click. "They had to leave him behind."

"What?" Will blinks. "Really?"

Sideswipe's vents expel a rush of air, and his blaster vanishes to wherever their weapons go when they aren't in use and attached to their bodies. Subspace, Ironhide had said, not that Will understands or is supposed to know about it.

"I don't think they had a choice." Sides rocks back and forth on his wheels before peering down at the colonel. "Were you looking for me?"

He can't feel energy fields like all Cybertronians can. Nonetheless, it doesn't take an alien robot to see the grief and resignation clinging to Sideswipe like a bad waxing job.

"No." Will shakes his head, feeling like he's stepped into the middle of something important. "Heard the noise. Came to investigate."

Sideswipe holds up his hands, the smallest of smiles flitting across his lips. "Promise I'm not destroying anything important. I got permission."

"Oh, yeah? From who?"

"Myself, of course." The brief attempt at humor fades as quickly as it appeared. "Hide's gone. Jazz's gone. Ratchet's gone. Bee's pulled a disappearing act. And now Prowl? That leaves me." His facial ridges draw down. "Or at least, it would have. That's Leadfoot's job now."

Will winces. He hadn't needed the reminder of all the Autobots lost. But there it is in all its depressing glory.

"You know about Prowl, huh?"

"Prime made sure to let everyone know," Sideswipe confirms, rocking back and forth on his wheels again. "He assigned Roadbuster to investigate."

Surprise rolls over Will like a bath of icewater. "Optimus told me not to organize a search party."

Sideswipe tilts his head. His optics cycle with curiosity.

"Investigating how and why Prowl left isn't the same thing as sending a mech to look for him."

In other words, Optimus has already written off Prowl.

Frag. Double and triple frag. It's like the Autobots are prisoners here or something.

Will sighs and palms his face. "I suppose you have a point."

The churning in his gut intensifies. He thinks longingly of the paperwork on his desk, the most recent set he has yet to tear and toss. The set waiting for a date and a signature.

"What do you think happened?"

"Thinking's not part of my job. I'm just a weapon." Sideswipe's blades slide out of their sheaths pointedly, dripping hot metal before he retracts them. "I go where I'm pointed."

Will debates with himself before he lets the question slip free. "What if they point you in the wrong direction?"

Sideswipe looks at him, a wealth of words in the slow flickering of his optics. "I have to trust that they aren't. Otherwise, the weight of everything I've done will crush me."

He turns back around then. And doesn't dare look at Will again.

It's a sentiment that Will understands completely.

o0o0o

Thank Primus it's Tuesday.

"Bobby!"

"Will!"

Manly handshakes give way to manly-slap-on-the-back hugs. One doesn't do go through hell and back multiple times to get intimidated by a little bromance. Will loves Epps like the brother he never had, and he's been through too much to be ashamed to show it.

They've been having this weekly meet ups since the whole Chicago fiasco. Bobby makes the three-hour drive because he's that side of awesome. Not to mention that he knows Will can't leave the base.

Epps is grinning ear to ear, a curve to his lips that hints of mischief. "Shit, Will. You look like hell."

"Tell me about it," Will grunts and slides into the booth, opposite from his best friend – aside from Sarah and Hide of course. "There are times I hate you for getting out when you did. And then, there are times that I envy you."

"Uh, oh. Prime throwing another tantrum?" Epps asks as he slides into the seat across from Will, looking in far better cheer. He's all patched up, too. No evidence of Chicago's madness is present on his body.

Will still limps from time to time. Doctors tell him his leg's never going to heal right. Small price to pay. He's lucky he's alive.

"I wish it were that." Will shakes his head. "Mearing's enough to give a migraine a migraine."

Epps laughs, nearly startling the waitress who comes by to take their orders. Not that it ever changes. Four dozen of the hottest wings, bleu cheese dressing, and a pitcher of beer. They're in for the long haul, as they usually are.

Sometimes, Will thinks these weekly get-togethers are all that's keeping his sanity intact. He wishes Graham could be here, too. But Mearing has long since shipped him back to Britain. That bitch.

"You'd think after Chicago she would've mellowed some," Epps shoots back, slumping in his seat until he's comfortable.

Will rubs his forehead. "If anything, she's gotten worse. Especially since Ratchet left." He's already told Epps about Ratchet, though he had left out the circumstances behind the mech's departure and his own involvement in it.

"I still don't understand that." Bobby frowns, arm slinging across the back of the booth as his other hand taps the tabletop. "I always thought Ratchet was one of the more loyal ones."

"Maybe he knows something we don't," Will edges around and is relieved when the waitress returns with their drinks.

Bobby, however, is not easily distracted. "Yeah. And that's what worries me." He takes a deep drink of the beer, the noise of the bar rising around them. "What does Mearing think about it?"

Will rolls his neck, feeling the tension in his upper body. If only he was home with Sarah's magical touch. Woman had the hands of a masseuse and a goddess both.

"She's ordered Optimus to hunt him down. And now Prowl, too."

"Wait a minute." Bobby pushes himself up, hand sliding down to smack against the table. "Prowl left?"

"No one's seen him, so that's what we're assuming." Will shrugs and tries not to look guilty. He isn't sure that it's working.

Bobby frowns. "Damn."

He tilts his head to the side thoughtfully. There's something in his eyes. Something far too shrewd and far cleverer than anyone would ever expect.

"Why are the Autobots jumping ship, Will?" he suddenly asks, voice and tone painfully neutral.

"I wish I knew."

Will reaches for his own beer, draining the mug in one fell gulp and pushing it to the edge of the table. Tonight, he thinks, is the night for a dozen. He can always call for a ride. Sideswipe won't mind. Much.

"The war's supposed to be over, but it still feels like we're all on high alert," Will allows with a flick of his hand.

Bobby's eyes narrow. "I guess that's cause the 'Cons are still around."

The waitress returns again, setting a plate of wings down in front of them. The sharp bite of spices floats to Will's nostrils, and he inhales greedily. So much better than the food at the mess.

"What are you talking about?" Will asks as he loads up his plate and snags one of the plastic cups of bleu cheese. "The half-offline drones that are scattered around?"

Bobby shakes his head and munches on a celery stick. "No, I'm talking about the 'Cons that showed up in DC the other day."

Will nearly chokes. He coughs, trying to clear his airway, washing it down with a gulp of beer.

"_What?_"

"You didn't know?" Bobby waves his chicken wing like it's a pointer. The motion is casual. Too casual. "One of my boys down in DC was telling me about it. Though strangely, no one was hurt." He looks at Will again, eyes glinting and tone too light.

"What happened?" Will asks, and he doesn't trust his own voice.

Bobby ravages the one wing and then grabs another. His mood is too light now. Too deceptive.

"Some Decepticons broke into the warehouse. You know, the one where they hauled all that tech and shit from the DC base? Anyway, they took everything."

Will stares at him as he eats with gusto.

A couple of days ago?

Something heavy drops into Will's belly, and it has nothing to do with the beer or the wings. He wipes the sauce from his chin.

That matches the timetable when the strange Cybertronians randomly appeared in Washington state, too. Almost as if they were trying to attract attention.

"Mearing said nothing about this. Not to me or Optimus."

Or maybe she had told Optimus, and the Prime hadn't seen fit to inform Morshower or Lennox. He's certain Morshower would've passed it on.

Bobby snorts. "Yeah, well. She wouldn't, would she?"

Will considers that for a minute.

"What kind of stuff?" he finally questions.

"Tech." Bobby toys with a stick of celery. "Not weapons so much as refining equipment, some welders. That kind of thing. Oh, and a busted engine."

Will frowns even more. That definitely doesn't sound like the work of Decepticons. Why would they take equipment? They're more likely to raid human settlements for energy, which they are in such desperate need of.

No, Will suspects that this is not the work of 'Cons. Or at least, not them alone.

"They couldn't trace it either. By the time the bastards got into Canada, they'd found the trackers and ripped 'em out."

That sells it. The scattered 'Cons are underpowered and too stupid for something like this. It has to be Ratchet and his team. They'd need the stuff. Will knows their whole plan involves leaving Earth.

Bobby tips the rest of his beer into his mouth. He swipes the back of his hand over his lips in a way that his own wife and Sarah both hate.

"It's enough to make me worry, want to hurry back home," Bobby says then, and his face is once more too shrewd. "Are they coming back, Will? 'Cause I thought their command was dead. Megs is gone. Starscream is just scrap. Sentinel and Shockwave, too. Right, Will?"

"It wasn't the Decepticons," Will counters, and there's no hiding the heaviness in his voice. He feels like a prick for lying to his best friend.

"What?"

Will shakes his head, reaching for the beer again. It's not enough though. He's seriously contemplating some liquor.

"It wasn't Decepticons, Bobby."

His friend stares at him now. "Will…"

But he shakes his head, nonchalantly glances around the bar. No one can hear them in their back corner, not over the noise of the game on every TV in the place.

Bobby looks at him again, and suddenly, he doesn't look at all like a man happy with military retirement. Suddenly, he looks just like the man who'd walked through war zones and always had Will's back.

"What aren't you telling me, Will?" he asks. "What do you know?"

His gaze wanders away, lips pressing together. Will wants to speak, but he can't. Bobby shouldn't know. It'll put him in danger. It'll put his wife and all his kids in danger. Hell, Will's not sure how he's been carrying this for so long.

Bobby leans over the table. He lowers his voice so that it's barely audible over the noise and raucous.

"William Lennox, so help me god if you know something you aren't telling me, I'm going to reach over this table and slug the shit out of you. They can't even haul me in for insubordination anymore either."

Will momentarily gapes. Then sighs. His elbows hit the table as he buries his head in his hands.

"It's complicated, man."

"Then uncomplicate it," Bobby all but hisses. "Shit's going down. I know it. You know it. But only you know why." He exhales loudly, but it's drowned out by the cheering from the bar crowd. "So spill it. I got just as much right to know. I was there with you. Remember?"

"You were just telling me you were worrying about your family's safety," Will retorts. "I tell you this, and you're putting them in even more danger."

Bobby snorts. "I can't protect them if I don't know what to worry about, dumbass."

"This isn't 'Cons, Bobby. This isn't big metal monsters sweeping down to vaporize us all," Will says, squeezing his eyes shut. "It's betrayal and treason and hope all wrapped up in one fragging _mess_."

Silence sweeps between them, more prominent for the racket that surrounds them.

Bobby stirs, whipping out his wallet and tossing several twenties on the table, more than enough for their bill and a generous tip. Not that he can't afford it with his cushy job. One that pays way more than even Will makes as a colonel.

"Get up."

Will's arms drop. "What?"

His best friend slides out of the booth, motions jerky and restrained. "Get your ass out of that seat. I'm not having this conversation here."

Will is stunned. But Bobby's not waiting, and he scrambles out of the booth to follow, plastering a fake smile on his face for the sake of all the strangers who aren't even watching them. Still, they've visited this bar often enough that they could be recognized. Will's face was plastered on TV often enough after Chicago anyway. Almost as much Sam's was.

It isn't until they're outside that Bobby whirls on him.

"You're going to tell me everything," he insists, heading towards his SUV. "Something's got you twisted up inside, and I can't help you if I don't know what it is."

"It's not safe," Will tries, but it's feeble at best.

Bobby jerks open the driver's side door. "Will, I haven't been safe since Qatar. At least give me a fighting chance."

Will sighs, circling around to the passenger side and letting himself inside. "Fine," he says as their doors slam shut in tandem. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

Throwing it into gear, Bobby pulls out into the street, away from prying eyes and eavesdroppers. Will supposes that they'll come back for his own car later. If there is a later. Bobby might just kill him now and be done with it.

"Warning noted," Bobby says, not privy to his morbid thoughts. "Now, tell me what the slag is going on."

All the fight – not that there was much – goes out of Will. He slumps into the seat and lets it spill. He tells Bobby everything he knows, everything he's done. He hasn't been able to tell anyone, not even Sarah, for fear of what could happen. But he trusts Bobby more than he's ever trusted anyone.

Save Ironhide.

And no, Will can't think of that now. Can't think of him. Only he is. And that's the problem.

He sighs then. Long and hard. And turns to Bobby. Looks at him. His profile. His eyes as he glares at the road like it's personally offended him and called his mama names.

He's trusted Bobby with his back. With his life. And now, he does it again. With his future. With Sarah's future. With _Annabelle's_.

He can trust Bobby in this, too.

* * *

a/n: Will only had this little bit to say so he only has the one part. :)

I've still got Optimus and Thundercracker that I'm editing through and I'm currently working on Skywarp and Drift's part. Sunstreaker has barged his way into the fic, demanding a say, too so I'm plotting that out as we speak.

Feedback is welcome and appreciated.


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